The Game of Shadows
by cheddarbiscuit
Summary: Link has to save the world with his own worst enemy... Himself.
1. Chapter 1

The Game of Shadows

So, this came as an off-hand request from Tumblr—and sometimes I do go there and take elements for some fanfics, never a whole idea before, but oh well. This is for Mismagireve. Sorry this took forever. Hope it lives up to your expectations.

Anyway, I'm just going to post it here, see how it goes over.

Disclaimer: Yeah I can't even claim the IDEA at this point. Absolutely nothing original. I basically just threw Dr. Faciller in a blender about one fourth of Twilight Princess, a chess motif, and some medieval fashion (because no one told me no—that's like half my excuse behind everything)

Also I'm going to do something a little different and say this is in in the Defeated Timeline somewhere (As opposed to Interlinking—I don't care where that one goes because it's so damn far in the future it doesn't matter.) Hell, that could take place in some re-unified timeline or something Idgaf.

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><p>Chapter one:<p>

"Creda!"

Link turned his head just in time to see Creda drop like a stone. He could hardly believe his eyes. One moment she was suspended there, almost as if she was held up by strings, her head lolling back, looking up, like she was half asleep, or simply checking the position of the sun, arms spread out like she had just pushed a pair of doors open, feet positioned mid-step, still moving, as if her toes expected to meet the ground soon. Her wooden clog balanced precariously, barely hanging on to her flexed foot. Link could have sworn, in that moment, that he saw her say something. Then she plunged down; black hair and white dress flying up, shoe bouncing, splintering, just beyond the reach of her fingers, as she she was stopped abruptly, folded completely, by the ground, ten feet away from him.

"Creda!" Her father shoved past him, pushing him back into the wall of the shed with so much force it knocked the wind out of him. Link put a hand to his chest and staggered forward, just as worried.

"You should not have locked her in!" He said breathlessly, he reached towards her, grabbed a hold of her arm. He felt a slow, steady pulse at her wrist. Her eyes fluttered open. She showed no signs of pain. "Everyone said not to lock her in!"

Her father shoved him back. "Fetch the Sage!"

"Nayru's Love! She still ties to stand!"

And she did. Her head swiveled back, over her left shoulder, craning to get a look at the barn, and her mouth moved again. "Cows." she muttered, then she rolled out of her father's arms, hitting the ground with a grunt as Link and Caulder tried to stop her from moving. She slipped out of their arms, trying to stand. There was a loud crack when she put weight on her right leg, another when she caught herself on her left.

Link tackled her, pushed her down before she could do any more damage to herself. He caught a glimpse of her right calf. He could see the broken bone nudging against her skin under her woolen chausses, trying to stab through it. Creda did not seem to notice. Her foot dragged a line in the dirt road as she moved her leg. "_Creda_!"

"The _Sage!_" Creda's father screamed at him.

He was right. He should not have locked her in that room—but he was right. There was no way around it—this was beyond their ability to handle. A Sage had to be summoned. While her father wept bitterly and rocked her, clutched her tightly to his chest as she tried to squirm away, and Link scrambled to his feet, the leather patches sewn to the soles of his hose slipped against his wooden clogs and he fell out of his shoes. He left them there. He ran. Past the fields of barley and wheat, the Cuccos in their pens, a crowd of women washing the linens; table cloths, towels and bedsheets, and hanging them out to dry. He pulled the back door open to the sage's garden, and came to a dead stop.

He carefully picked his way through the garden of medicinal herbs.

Faron, the Sage, was a stooped man, with a concave chest and a hooked nose. He had a habit of wearing green and greyish brown, coating himself with dirt up to his elbows, and blending in with his garden just like the Princess's little lap dog blended in with the marble in the hallways. Link would have nearly stepped on him while trying not to trod on the chamomile if he had not said, loudly, "What is it you need, lad?"

Link reeled backwards, and managed to catch himself without killing a single plant. The old sage stood up to his impressive height of four-and-ten-inches, looking up at Link from under eyebrows over-grown like weeds. He had a booming voice for such a tiny fellow.

"The Carpenter's daughter—" Link felt like grabbing a hold of his brittle, old arm and dragging him. But he knew his place—and he knew no one, young or old, appreciated being dragged. He took a step back, "The milkmaid—Creda. Pray, you must come. She is badly injured."

"What happened?"

"She has broken her legs."

"I see, I see." Faron turned away, gathered up his long robe and shuffled through his garden, getting his hose coated with dirt, moving towards his shed, where he kept his store of ready-made remedies. Link heaved an impatient, worried sigh, and took the longer way around the garden to get the door for him. With out a word, he shuffled in and out again, with a little glass jar filled about half way with a thick salve made of chu jelly, poppy's tears, and an infusion of elderberries, and Link had to wait while he shuffled to the gate. He took the long way again, fetched his donkey for him, set him on it, and guided him, at a much slower pace, back to where Creda and her father waited. It would be faster, Link thought to himself, if he just carried him on his back.

Link guided the donkey by the reins, hurrying it along, though it clearly wanted to dig in its hooves and was only willing to be forcibly dragged. The Sage berated him, "Tis but a broken leg, boy!"

Link huffed. It was much more than just a broken leg, but it was not something he could easily explain, not with out Creda right there. Any explanation, any description, of what he had witnessed, the sudden change that had overcome her, was too hard to explain. It was nothing short of witchcraft. He shook his head, "No—you must come and see for yourself. She had been taken in to some kind of waking stupor—she is truly under the influence of a bad star. Either by curse or illness, she had been left stripped of her will, simply going through the motions of life."

A guardsman passed them, pulling along a pack of snarling hounds. The Donkey grew startled, but the dogs were not snarling at him. Link steered him away as the guardsman pulled the dogs in the opposite direction, raising his one free hand to his green hat to keep it on his head. Link did not know how he managed to hold three leashes and his spear so securely. He worried that he would not be able too, but he did, and the dogs grew obedient as they were dragged away, only tugging occasionally to bark down the trail.

The Sage, instead of scoffing and dismissing Link, tilted his head, straitened his back and took heed of his words, then hastened his donkey along. It usually did obey him, but the closer they got to Creda, the more ornery and stubborn it became, until it refused to move another foot, squealed and hawed in protest. Link gave up trying to move it, and simply tied it to the nearest fence post with a pile hitch. They continued slowly on foot at a shuffling, agonizing pace.

When they reached Creda, she bad been laid on a straw mattress in the breezeway. Her breath was shallow and quick, but it did not seem to be particularly labored. Her legs had already been bound and splinted with the straightest boards they had managed to find, the broken handle of the spear, and rough flax rope. The guardsman that had loaned the wood sat on the edge of the breezeway, boots in the grass, waving the crowd away as they gathered with what remained of his spear—an iron point riveted to six inches of wood. They were peering around one another, baskets of berries and vegetables at their sides watching in fascination, whispering to each other. Across the way, from the pantry, the old hook-nosed crone that did nothing but grind flower and churn butter straightened her old dowager's hump to get a good view. Children looked from behind skirts. As Link wove through them, he heard someone whisper, "_The Waste_."

He turned slightly, but he could not see who had spoken. He shepherded Old Faron through, then followed. The woolen fabric of Creda's hose had been torn away, revealing a gash, and a seeping, dark stain of blood on her left shin. She had managed to stand again, make her injuries worse, but she could not now, fortunately. Her shoulders were tied down, tight enough that she could not move. Her head turned from side to side, craning up to look at the barn. Her father stood by, wringing his hands.

Old Faron knelt down by Creda, pressed the back of his hand against her forehead, felt her wrist for a pulse, and took the back of her head, muttering to her, "Creda, be a good lass."

She twisted her head away, the potion spilled down her chin and over her chest. The sage quickly pulled the bottle away, so no more of the precious remedy would be lost.

"Hold her head still!"

Link obeyed, cradled Creda's head in his hands, holding her still so the Sage could open her mouth and tip the remainder of the potion into her mouth, a little a time, to make sure she swallowed a few drops. Link knew no instant change would come. At best, if there was any immediate reduction of pain, it would be the effects of Creda's own mind. However she was in her own world, oblivious to the poppy's tear potion slowly seeping through her body. Link laid her head down on the straw mattress again, brushed off a nipping insect, and twisted her hair away from her neck and face. Old Faron turned to her father and demanded, "What happened?"

"I-I don't know!" he said, "She seemed so normal this morning, when she woke up, perhaps a little tired, quiet. Creda normally talks so much—but, just ask Link here, she did not say a word. But her affliction goes beyond simply being tired. She barely ate her breakfast this morning. She did not comb her hair. She dressed, and while we were all eating, she went right to the barn to milk the cows. If—If Link had not been sleeping in the loft..." he trailed off, choked up with worry. Link finished for him.

"She could not get near them. As soon as she opened the barn door, they panicked. They have never been spooked around Creda—they have never had a reason. She walked towards them like it was nothing, like she did not even notice. She could have been hurt if I had not dragged her out. I asked her what she thought she was doing, getting near them when they were trying to kick her head in, and she just said she had to go milk them, and she tried to go right back in. Nothing could keep her out—" he looked at her father, and found himself blurting out, "It isn't his fault. He never thought she would—He should not have done it."

"Done what?"

"We could not keep her out—and it _was_ her. The animals were frightened of her for some reason. Only her. Ophelia went in and milked them. We tried to show her that there was no reason for her to go into the barn, the cows were milked, she could go and help harvest the turnips, but she insisted, she had to go milk the cows. She had clearly gone mad. It did not matter how much distance we put between her and the barn. She would go to them, regardless. All we could do was put her in a room on the second floor, and bolt the door. We never thought that she would climb out the skylight."

"She jumped off the roof?"

"No." her father answered, "She did not jump. She climbed out like the ground was just half and inch below. Stepped out into empty space like it was nothing."

The Old Sage smacked his lips, nodded thoughtfully, turned to the guardsmen, and said, "Prepare to have her moved with the others."

Link and Creda's father turned, "Others?"

The guardsman nodded, picked up his green hat again, brushed off his small, starched ruff, and walked the long trail to the palace, broken spear in hand. Creda began to move a little less. Old Faron explained; "There is an ailment of unknown origin sweeping through Castle Town. I have prayed that it would not reach us here—but it finally has. It has left hundreds of people," he motioned over Creda's body wearily, "Just like this. Blind to their own safety. Simply going though the motions of life, determined to do nothing but work until starvation and fatigue consume them. There have been many deaths and careless injuries—and the disease has only been here a few weeks. Those are the lucky ones, the ones that will at least work. Others simply lay there, they do not eat. They do not rise for anything. They just... Waste away." He turned, looked to Link, then to her father, "Has she been to the town recently?"

A cold pit settled in his stomach. He glanced to her father, too, and waited for him to say something. He did not know what he wanted him to answer. If he said no—that meant it was something anyone could fall victim too, no reason at all. If he said yes, that still meant that he could contract it, anyone that had been near her could. Finally, he did. "She went last night."

Old Faron heaved a sigh of resignation, scooted away and patted his knees. As he got to his feet clumsily, the three-sided silver pendant he wore swung forward on its chain, glinted in the light. Link hurried to help him, and he said, "They will come to take her, soon."

"Is there anything we can do?" her father asked, he looked at Link, "S-suppose one of us... _caught it?_"

The Sage shook his head, "We do not know how it spreads. In the city it appeared to spread at random, appearing in one house when no family members, no neighbors, were affected. Those who tend the ill have yet to show any signs of the affliction. This is no disease—no cough, no plague of the flesh. It is as young Link described it to me—the gaze of evil simply _turns _to them_._ The sages knew it would come to the castle. It is only a matter of when."

"The King must be told."

"The King knows."

"And he does _nothing!?_" Caulder demanded with the justified anger of a concerned father. Link helped Old Faron step down to the stones that served as a stair into the breeze way. Part of this was simply to put a little more distance between him and the man's anger. He turned.

"There is naught for him _to do,_ Caulder, my friend." Old Faron told him, "The King is but a man and this is clearly above even him."

No one would begrudge him his anger, his feelings of helplessness. Least of all Link. He asked, holding it all back, "What do you propose we do, then?"

"Pray." he replied, "Tis all you can do, Caulder, pray that this plague comes to an end as swiftly as it begun." He turned to the waiting, watching crowd, "Go. Begone. All of you. The King may be on a hunt—but he will still expect a feast with his kill in the evening, clean cloth for his table. After three days he shall return to his bed—are the sheets clean?"

Gradually, they dispersed, looking back on occasion. Link escorted the Sage to his Donkey. It had nearly tugged out the fence post trying to get away, and it put as much distance between himself and Creda as fast as his stout legs could. Link returned, slipped his wooden shoes back on his feet, and sat down in the breezeway, waited with Creda's father for the four infantrymen that appeared, carrying a heavy stretcher made of canvass and smooth, sanded wood. The pieces were hand fitted together, secured with whittled wooden pegs, not with rough rope. Creda was subdued now, and would be for half the day, perhaps more. They untied her, carefully lifted her up, and slowly carried her away on the stretcher. Her father followed, dragging his feet. The anger was gone now—there was only despair.

Link had his own work to attend too. He knew this, but he also knew there were other fishermen, and plenty of people to gather watercress by the riverside, and berries in the woods. He followed, too. He did not want to see just how many the disease had claimed, but at the same time, he wanted to know the truth that had been hidden from them all. Palace servants like himself lead a particularly sheltered life, arguably even more sheltered that the King or the Princess, who were obligated to make public appearances, to leave the palace and see the streets of Castle Town, should she be prosperous or suffering.

He had never really been to Castle Town, himself. He always had the option, they all did. Link, like many servants and workers, and many in Hyrule, were extremely devoted to at least one of the three Golden Goddesses, Nayru, Din, or Farore, some were devoted to all three. And during the week, three days were given, one to each Goddess. Link had chosen Farore, Goddess of courage, prudence, and service. As such, he was given leave on Faroresday, for prayers, contemplation, and relaxation. The servants devoted to Farore usually spent the morning in the castle chapel, praying, listening to Old Faron preach, remind them of her good deeds, her fierce and undying loyalty, the fortitude and piety she would grant them in exchange for their prayers, and of the good deeds of the Hero.

From there, they would head through the small gate in the palace's high wall, head into town, to spend their wages on trinkets, and spend the latter part of the day there. Link spent the day as he always did. He took his bow and arrows and went through the back gate to the open, wooded area that the city had yet to touch, and followed old trails that passed by the most productive berry bushes, took good flint from the bottom of the clear stream, strait, sturdy sticks, and spent the day crafting arrows. Perhaps in the church he heard Farore's words, but in the woods, he felt her presence. Yes, she was the goddess of service, of prudence and courage, but she was also the goddess of life, the forest, the breeze that drifted through it, the sound of flutes and reed pipes.

_Farore, be with us._ Link reached under the collar of his woolen tunic, took out a braided leather cord. Laced through the cord was a small copper medallion, with a diameter no greater than the first two digits his smallest finger, a rough-cut, imperfect, green stone nestled in the two etched crescents, making Farore's symbol on one side. The back was plain. Usually, words of encouragement were etched there, or locks of hair preserved behind tightly-fitted plates of glass. Link's was plain. He had nothing to put there.

He looked back at Creda on the stretcher.

Then, he noticed something the chaos of trying to restrain her had not allowed him to see. Her shadow.

Link looked at the shadow of Creda's arm on the dirt road. It appeared half-formed, drifting and grey, like ash swirling through water, light passing though foggy, dirty glass, or thin silk. It was no trick of the light—the stretcher, the infantrymen, his own figure on the dirt road, all of them were normal, dark, crisp, moving in perfect time with their steps, but the shadow of Creda's arm, Link noticed, moved just a little slower than her, trailed behind, and the more her arm moved, the more the distance became, it had been just a tad, no more than a hair's width out of sync at first, but by the time they had reached the castle walls, it was too great for Link to ignore.

But no one else saw it. No one else said a word about it.

Link scanned their faces when they stopped so that the door could be opened for their little procession. None of them seemed to notice it. Link looked back to Creda's arm. It had gone still, the shadow, however, still moved freely, swinging back and forth, as if she was still being rocked by the timed steps of the infantrymen. Link gripped Farore's pendant tighter. He could feel the green, sharp-edged stone digging into his palm. No one seemed to notice her shadow's arm, the way it moved.

The doors opened up and Creda was moved again—the shadow of her arm, however, dragged behind. Link stopped short, stepped back, to avoid treading on it. There was no telling what that would do. He skirted to the side, slipped in, and stayed out of the shadow's way. More servants mumbled, pointed, skittered away at the sight, as they made their way through the castle to where the 'others' had been moved to.

The king had opened his ball room, the kind meant for the most lavish of parties. Link had never actually seen it before—as a fisherman and woodsman, the closest he had ever gotten to it was when he took fire wood to the base of Princess Zelda's tower in the wintertime, or hauled grayling and trout, or foraged vegetables, to the kitchen. He recalled details he had heard by word of mouth, about the gilded metal that was always glimmering, the chandelier of glass and crystal. Link glanced up. It was not in use right now, so that hot wax would not drip on anyone. Link had heard once, from a valet who was trusted enough, respected enough, and knew the ways of courtly graces, that during the parties it was freshly polished, and the candles glowed brightly, reflecting on the finely-buffed mother-of pearl, getting caught by the crystal, and painting the room with small, delicate rainbows. There was a stage for a chamber orchestra—the room was large enough for all of the nobility and higher gentry to gather, have dinner, and dance with out ever having to say a word to each other. The vaulted ceiling was covered by large sheets of highly buffed metal, the surface was so pure and smooth, Link could see the scene reflected back at them.

It was hardly grand now.

The afflicted were crammed together so tightly, between cold, unyielding marble pillars, they had no room to move. The soldiers had a hard time carrying Creda to one of the available beds with out nearly stepping on some poor soul. None of them cared to notice. They were either catatonic on their own, or kept immobile by ropes, or one of Faron's remedies. Link pressed himself against the white wall. The marble had a certain soft, fine smoothness to it. Plain tallow candles burned, the windows were thrown open, and the room would need a good scrubbing down before it could be used again. It may look like a ballroom under the still, quiet, wasting bodies, but it did not smell like anyone would want to throw a lavish party any time soon.

They were keeping it as clean as they could.

The thought of Creda in here was horrible, but there was nothing else for her. This was truly the best place, where she would be watched at all hours of he day.

Link looked to the shadows—they were all laying down, but from what he saw, yes, those affected all had the same grey, smoke-like shadows the Creda did. He knelt down, looked around, and lifted the arm of a boy that was just laying there, eyes open, unseeing, unblinking, mouth occasionally moving. He looked at the gray shadow his arm cast on the white pillar, then let the arm drop. The shadow remained, briefly, then slowly dropped down, not following the exact path the boy's arm had—it melted quickly, like a castle of sand slowly collapsing. He looked around again. There was a Sage looming over him, eyes narrowed, arms folded. Link tried, "You—you didn't see what I saw, did you?"

"What did you see?"

"The shadow." Link answered. He took the boy by the wrist again, held up his hand, and looked at the pillar. Slowly, the shadow caught up. Link dropped his arm again. The Sage made a noise of disapproval and scorn. Link pointed, "You—you don't see that?" he asked as the shadow melted away.

"I see a brat playing games." she chided him, "I see a fisherman who does not know his place."

Link shrunk back, cheeks burning red, gaze trailing from her blue eyes to her white wimple, to the silver, three-sided pendant around her neck, resting against the white fabric of her robe, then to the blue sash around her waist, fringed in gold and embroidered with Nayru's sigil, then to the pointed tips of her shoes.

"I'm sorry." Without meeting her eyes, he got up, made his way carefully along the wall. He felt her disapproving eyes glaring holes into his back. Still, he knew what he saw—perhaps the sage had not, but he _knew_ what he had seen. He had seen dark magic at its worst.

And when dark magic was a foot, it was wise for any fellow named Link to seek out the nearest Princess Zelda.

An educated girl like Zelda might be knowledgeable about what he was talking about, with the wisdom of the Triforce, she might already have an idea of what was going on, or at least the willingness to lend an ear to him. She would have the power to do something. There were better sages than Old Faron. He was a good herbalist, yes—but anyone could make his remedies. Even Link could. They were slapdash, the measurements never exact as the ingredients. There were better _mystics_ than Old Faron. But what if she did not see it? What if he came to her, a simple fisherman? She would laugh, dismiss him as a malicious liar, a fear monger, at the very best she would think he was deeply disturbed. A name was only as good as the family behind it and he had no family.

Besides—Link stopped by the wall and looked backwards, to the tallest tower in the middle of the castle—Princess Zelda was doing all she could. She probably already knew about the strange, otherworldly effect the Waste had upon Shadows. She did have the Triforce on her side. Princess Zelda spent many hours in the tower of the Triforce, bathed in its light, in prayer. She had been spending many more days before it, as of late, according to rumor. Now Link knew why.

Zelda did not need him, or his input. She had the foot soldiers in the palm of her hand, the knights wrapped around her fingers, the Cavaliers—her own father's bodyguards!—clinging to every breath she took. Let evil even glance at Hyrule castle, let some foreign king try to take take the Triforce from her. They would have no easy time.

Old Faron was right, anyway. He had work to do. When the King returned from his hunt there would be plenty of feasting and midday was coming. As Link walked past the kitchen, he could see that preparations were already underway, with a host of Pike, Roach and Greyling fish cramped in water-tight barrels beside the hot kitchens, cucoos and geese pinned in, and two fattened hogs awaiting slaughter, herbs and vegetables waited in baskets, covered in damp linen to keep them from spoiling in the sun. Pears would be brought from the orchard soon.

Link figured more of everything could not hurt. The fishpond was just beyond the beehives. He took a loosely woven basket and fishing pole from the kitchen wall, and went down to the lake side. He anchored the basket to the fishpond, with the basket in the water, and waited. He past the heat of the day like this, waiting for the tug at the line, and while he waited, he filled a second, larger basket with the watercress, and caught enough fish to fill the tall, slim basket. As the sun went on its lazy path, and Link found himself looking more and more frequently to the tower where Princess Zelda was surely praying, he wondered why the King would go out on a hunt while his subjects were wasting away in his own ballroom. The only viable reason he could think of was to keep up appearances—but to the best of his knowledge, there was no one to keep appearances _for_—then again, why feast if there was no new noblemen in the region?

He looked back up at the Triforce's tower. Zelda _was_ sixteen—The king could probably not keep them away at this point, even with a plague descending on the town. It was summer, the people in the ballroom would be easy to hide away. The King could throw a celebration in one of the many courtyards, claim he wanted air, or show off one of the vast, colorful sunsets, or out on the field. Or, perhaps Zelda would think of that. Her mother had passed some time ago, and so the duties of the late queen, hosting parties, supervising and organizing meetings of the head of state, ensuring all diplomatic relationships went smoothly, and that the royal coffers were always taking in more money than they spent, all fell to Zelda—perhaps she was even in charge of making her own match.

It was not his place to think about such things.

He carried both baskets to the kitchens, tucked the watercress under the wet linen, and emptied the basket of fish into the least full barrel. He gathered more watercress—but did not catch anymore fish. It was good not to over-fish the pond. When that task was done, Link took an axe and set to work chopping wood for the roaring fires that would fill the kitchens for the better part of the day, still wondering. What was the cause of the Waste? It was clearly magic. It was as plain as day to Link. Was it some kind of convergence in the heavens? A foreshadowing of things to come?

Link felt a slowly growing fear turning and twisting in his belly, like a millstone turning in a storm.

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><p>To do:<p>

Write Fanfiction.

Read Fanfiction.


	2. Chapter 2

The Game of Shadows

(Disclaimed)

Hmmmm—Should I keep the dialogue subtle and only use ye olde englishe for humor and emphasis, or should I go over the top faux-netic all the time? Should I set boundaries for fashion so we don't have a dude in a early-medieval bliaut rubbing elbows with a dude in a Renaissance jerkin? Should I use _exactly_ the same plumbing system that was found in that one monastery, or should I use something a bit more Roman for it?

And, most importantly:

Should I kill the dog?

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><p>Chapter two:<p>

Link, for lack of a new task, just kept pondering and hacking up fire wood until he worked up a healthy, sticky sweat, a mess of salt clinging to his forehead and back—and the kitchen was so busy, every time he brought a load to the pile, they had already burned through the last one. When it grew too hot to work, well after midday, he took a break, ate some dried pottage turned into a bit of soupy mess, a refection of its original form, with a few splashes of bitter beer, he nibbled on some watercress by the riverside, a few fresh berries, and watched a few boys kicking a heavy leather ball between them, using two trees as goals.

He finished the bland meal, took a brief nap, and then went back to work.

Sometimes, he envied the indoor servants, who got to see the grand feasts and parties the royal family hosted. But it was good there was no way he could be called in at the last minute to serve during one. He would have no idea how to behave—he was as humble as they came, but did not take being belittled kindly. Everyone said, time and time again, with his good eye, his natural talent for a clean kill, and his calm demeanor, he would better serve the king as a soldier or an archer. He could even be a cavalier or knight, if he wanted to be. And he wanted to be—but all stations were reserved for those born to them. And Link was born to be a servant, regardless of disposition.

"Ugh."

Link stopped, the axe head lodged slightly in the tree stump. Before him was a narrow and prim man. When Link looked at him, he drew himself up, elbows bent. Over one arm, there was draped a green tunic, the other was held up, by his shoulder, in a dignified, dainty manner, his fingers resting elegantly on the heel of his hand. He head moved on his long neck like a owl or a snake, examining him with narrow eyes like he was a particularly mange-ridden rat and wondering if he was suitable to eat or not. Link crossed his writs on the butt of the axe handle, and propped a foot on the stump.

The man was not exactly nobility, though he was splendidly dressed, a fine, sky-blue doublet with open, trailing sleeves, a pair of parti-colored hose, and fine, polished, pale leather shoes. Link vaguely recognized him. He was the Steward. The King was the one to paid Link for his services, but the Steward was the one who told him what to do.

He said again, as if to prove a point or to receive some kind of acknowledgment, "UGH!"

"Is that meant to be hello?" Link tilted his head to the side and smirked.

"Ugh!"

Perhaps that was really all he could say. Link tried to imagine a mute man's life, capable only of speaking in grunts and wordless shouts.

"What do you need?"

"Pray, do not tell me _you_ are Link."

"As you wish." Link replied, "I am not Link."

In hindsight, that was no way to speak to the Steward, considering that this was their first time actually speaking. Link had seen him around plenty of times but he was a barely worth the man's time. Link did not know his name, and clearly he did not know Link's. There was a very, very long chain of command separating them. If the Steward was bypassing that chain, it must be something important.

The man sighed with relief, "Then where can I find him?"

"Sarcasm, sir."

He flushed a brilliant scarlet and his beak-like nose wrinkled over his curling lip in pure revulsion, but his voice betrayed almost none of that, as he said, "Clearly you are unversed in manners and graces."

"Yes."

The Steward looked flustered, like Link was the lesser of many, many evils, the least-lame horse in the stables, but he went on and stated his piece. "Creda was supposed to serve the king's table for feast tonight—but, as you well know she is..." his beady eyes slid around, his neck craning to make sure they were no one was listening to the secrets the steward had to share with a lowly woodsman. No one was around, and if they were, they were standing by the pasture fence, looking out into an open, grassy field that was reserved for the king's favorite past-time, falconry. Link looked too. They were raising a slapdash jousting tilt and high pavilion for the king, the princess, and most beloved courtiers. Link looked back, the Steward politely finished his sentence, "Indisposed. Another for the high table has already been chosen—I would never be so negligent as to allow a ruffian like you to do that. It is not difficult at all to find servants willing and prepared to serve the king, but we do need a lad to serve wine to the lower nobility. An easy task. All you must do is be swift, obedient, and hold your tongue. I thought, perhaps, Creda had taught you how to conduct yourself in the presence of better men."

Link was not keen on that. "No."

The Steward huffed, then held up the green tunic, comparing it to Link. He lowered it, then raised it again, eyes narrowed. "The fit is near perfect."

"No."

"With such fair complexion, you would do well to be moved inside."

Link was still not keen. "The sun has yet to kill me."

"You may cast an eye upon Princess Zelda."

Link was, admittedly, slightly more keen—but not keen enough. "Not interested."

"The color is most striking."

"Blue is far more becoming."

"But you must!" the Steward whipped the tunic down adamantly as he said so.

The words were barely out of his mouth before Link replied, suddenly, "As you wish."

Farore's Embrace, why had he said _that?_

The steward looked delighted, for the most part. The other part was still very reluctant. "You will have to be cleaned up." Then, as a second thought, he added, "Might as well burn those rags."

"You had better be joking."

He had _two_ sets of clothes. One was to wear to church while the ones he was wearing were being washed. No, they were not clean or particularly pretty, no one looked good in yellowed linen and brown wool, but they were the only work clothes he had. The Steward did not answer—Link did not think he was joking. He took him by the tunic, the moment his bare hand touched the sweaty fabric, he reeled back, "Ugh!"

He reached into a pocket, took out a linen kerchief and covered his hand with it. He grabbed Link again and dragged him away. He did not know why the Steward was dragging him—he knew perfectly well where they were headed. Far from the kitchens and the king's recreational grounds—closer the the part of the woods only Link knew, and nearer the well, the servants had a stone-walled hut for washing themselves. Generally for Link, this was the night before Faroresday—although for the Steward, who was remarkably clean, it was probably nightly. The King did like his court well groomed. Link had heard through the grapevine that he bathed once a day, and Zelda bathed twice.

A great deal of work was put into aqueducts and plumbing. The grey stone building had two sides, one for men, one for women, divided by a wall so thick you could not hear through it, let alone see. Link did not know about the women's side, but the men's side had one private bath, reserved for people who worked indoors, rubbed elbows with the Steward and the King. It had a small stove for heating water that came through the pipes. The rest was a great communal thing where freezing water trickled from faucets in the wall, every one shouted too much and Link could not help the feeling of being watched.

The Steward pushed open the wooden doors and took Link to the private room. It was filled with about six too many people for one bath. The Steward had two of them strip him down to nothing save his medallion, with two more waiting to man-handle him into the tub, should he resist. Link was not stupid enough to pick a fight naked. He climbed into the tub with no resistance. The water was scorching hot, and The Steward made himself particularly unhelpful by taking the handle of the brass kettle and pouring even hotter water over Link's head.

"Okay, which serving are we talking about again!?" Link demanded, flinging soaking wet hair out of his eyes, "Am I to be serving wine, or will I be served boiled with wine?"

He did not laugh. "A Goron can survive being encased in molten hot lava—"

"Yes, but even _they_ try to avoid it!"

"You can survive a little heat."

Then another pair of hands started to scrub him roughly. Link swatted the man away, "I am not a child. I can clean myself! Out! All of you! Please."

A brief battle of tug ensued for the sponge, which Link lost, because the only thing keeping his modesty in tact was the tub, and that would swiftly be lost if he got to his feet again. All the fellow had to do was take a step back, beyond Link's reach, and he had won. The Steward picked up Link's linen shirt with two fingers, not daring to touch anymore than that. Link saw that someone else was already re-filling the kettle at the wall. Steam rose in his face as the cool water touched the hot metal and he carried it over to the fire. The Steward, after very little consideration, tossed Link's shirt into the flames, then the rest of his clothes.

"Hey!"

He wiped his hand on his handkerchief, gave it a forlorn look, then he threw it on, too.

"I'll have new ones for you on the morrow." he replied. Link did not doubt it. The Steward was only the Steward because he never failed to deliver, "Hair, nails, everything needs to be spotless and groomed."

"Yes sir."

Link felt as though he had lost about ten layers of skin from the hot water alone. It smelled like salts treated with lavender, chased the dirt and oil on his skin away. After a good, long soak and a rough scrubbing he was allowed to dry himself in private with a rough linen towel (he lost about five more layers of skin to that towel) and don the new shirt and braies that had been left, neatly folded, on a stool. No sooner had he tied the braises around his waist than a woman and a man came in. She had him sit down on the stool while she scraped the calluses on his hands away with a small pumice stone, and he chopped a good five inches of hair away, so that it no longer hid his pointed ears or his blue eyes.

When the excess hair and flakes of skin were wiped away, he used a mouth wash of diluted apple vinegar—mixed with another taste he could not begin to recognize or place. It smelled a little like myrrh. Perhaps it was. Link had smelled myrrh plenty of times working with Faron. When he was cleaned to the Steward's precise standards—he was given a damn through inspection—Link was left alone with the Steward to dress himself in the uniform. While he prattled on about who was there and what to expect, Link jerked on the white woolen chausses. They were sewn with care, made with a finer, thinner fabric than Link was used too, with the seam allowance tacked down with a second row of precise little stitches—not the long, loose ones he was used too. They tied to the braises, at the waist, with a triangle of fabric over the front, clipped in place with a small iron clasp. There were no leather soles. They were made to be worn with shoes.

Next came the short woolen cotehardie. It had a low collar, so the pure white linen shirt underneath could be folded over and seen, a yellowed and dirty shirt would imply Hyrule was less than the pinnacle of wealth and therefore spoil the look. It went to about mid-thigh, buttoned up the front, the waist seam was hidden by an embroidered belt that was pinned with a metal brooch. It was closely fitted—and Link wondered how it had been made to his exact measurements so quickly—perhaps it was coincidence. It was embroidered around the collar and over shoulders with mother-of-pearl and glass beads. The cuffs were plain, a little short, to avoid contact with food.

Lastly came a pair of brown leather shoes, held together by rivets that were functional as well as decorative, and fastened with laces. Link was familiar with lacing shoes, though the ones he had seen—made by a cobbler in the city, were open-topped, the laces baring down on the top of the foot. These, made for royalty's direct inferiors and sparing no expense, had a tongue of embossed leather and quilted hemp beneath the laces, a little layer of extra protection. Link could not stop fluffing his freshly trimmed hair with his clean and callus free hands. The Steward grumbled something about decency.

It was cooler, the beginnings of civil twilight when he was allowed to leave the bathhouse. The feast was beginning to start on the field. Link heard a swell of music, a laugh. This was about the time Old Faron started climbing to the observatory—and by the time he made it, the final course would be brought. The Steward guided him back to the kitchen, which was nestled close to the castle walls. Before the Steward could touch the door, it was thrown open and two boys, barely any older than him, came out quickly, carrying between them a gigantic stuffed peacock—an extravagant thing that would grace the king's table before the first course of little finger foods were brought. Creda had told him that much, sometimes it was a swan, a flock of doves nailed to sewn to a freshly cut branches. A peacock was almost too fanciful to believe. Link's eyes followed them down to the Falconry Field. They moved quick. The kitchen fires were still blazing hot, glowing. It smelled wonderful in there. With a chuckle and a little chagrin, Link realized he starving—he knew better than to sneak a bite to eat.

The Steward took him inside, and abandoned him by the door. He vanished into the hot, half-lit chaos of men in their skivvies running about in the almost unbearable heat. Somehow, he pulled an end of a loaf of bread, and a slice of sharp, dry cheese, and a mug of diluted ale from the mess, or perhaps his extravagant sleeve. He handed them to Link on a small wooden platter, "I will not send you out there starving and risk you stealing food."

"Thank you."

The Steward may have rigorously high standards—but it was good to know he was not heartless. Link ate quickly, the kitchen was too hot to stand around there for so long, even if he had never tasted bread so soft and sweet before. He was used to dark, bitter rye, bland barley. Nothing a pillowy as this—even if it was just a kitchen scrap.

Was this how clouds tasted?

"When you are done, head towards the field. The wine will be there. I have other matters I must attend to." Then he issued a stern, final warning, "By Nayru, do not utter a word. Do not make eye contact. Do nothing but carry wine."

Then he departed as briskly as he did everything else, trailing sleeves swaying as he walked. Link downed the glass of water and slipped out of the kitchen. He wondered if anyone would really notice one less lad carrying wine, and he considered slipping away from the castle entirely for the night. But he saw it set aglow in the distance, heard a great clamor of laughter, and curiosity got the best of him.

It was hard to guess that this had been a simple flat field this morning, but that was the power of the crown.

The five dining tables had been hauled out from the inside, the kings table sitting on the raised wooden dais, and the other four opposite it him, on the other side of the jousting tilt, and each one was covered with freshly laundered linens and set with simple, but elegant, clay dishes, trimmed with a little gold, the centerpieces were freshly cut flowers, with fallen feathers from a peacock's train and sprigs of bright red berries nestled between them, and Link wondered if they _knew_ eating the red berries would cause them to vomit. Perhaps that was the point?

Everyone was trying to impress. The guests were in their best finery, the veils were floating and billowing, trails long, hair let down and doublets gilded. It was all set shimmering and glowing with a ring of torches, and between the four tables, in a space cleared of grass and lined with stones and dirt, was a massive, lit bonfire, chasing away the chill of the night.

Beyond the ring of torchlight, hidden away, but conveniently close, there were about twenty or so barrels lashed together and held in place with wooden pegs, each was filled with wine, and supervised by another fellow who's job must be to make sure no one was drinking on the job. He gave Link a heavy, clay, gilded pitcher of wine and set him on his way again, told him to start at the end of the nearest table, closest to the king's table, and work his way from there, filling every half empty goblet.

Beside the king's dais, at odd angles, were two lower platforms, the first filled with seated musicians, with their instruments in hand, waiting for some unspoken cue. It was draped in blue cloth, with Nayru's crest carved into the front. The second one, on the other side, with a drum that took up most of the platform, draped in red and bearing Din's symbol. The jousting tilt was draped in a length of green cloth, and marked for Farore.

A Joust for Farore, a Song for Nayru, and a Dance for Din.

Must be a pretty important occasion for all of that.

There was another swell of laughter. A chime of bells and Link looked to the grass between the bonfire and the jousting tilt. There was a bard, in a red and black tabard, made of four squares of fabric on the front, four on the back, giving it a checkered pattern, over a black tunic and two-colored hose with billowing sleeves around his upper arms, growing tight and tapered below his elbows with miss-matched buttons, wood and shell and silver. He walked as he told his tale, the bells on his ankles chiming in time with his recitation. Link could hardly hear the words for the laughter. Clearly it was a story they all knew—one they did not need to hear.

The loudest laugh of all came from the high table, where the King, in his red, ermine-trimmed cloak, white velvet over gown, his round belly curving proudly over a jeweled girdle, sat dead center, his head thrown back in a barking, strong guffaw. His broad jawline was covered with a short, fluffy white beard, and the bald patch of at the back of his head was hidden by the velvet cap under his golden crown. He was a merry faced man, with round cheeks and an always-smiling mouth, deep laughter lines and crows feet.

On his left was a grown man wearing and extravagant, long blue cotehardie with hanging sleeves, deep enough to hide something in, with a white silk shirt beneath and an elaborate hat with a peacock feather sticking out. He was laughing, but the smile did not reach his eyes. His gaze kept darting about, to the bard, to the knights in their polished armor, standing at attention, to the Cavaliers in their long white tunics and surcoats decorated with Hyrule's crest on a red back ground, one posted on either side of the table, hands resting on their swords, then to the king, then back to the blue crests and sashes of the knights. Every now and then he would lean forward to look at the Princess, seated on the King's right.

Princess Zelda looked thoroughly displeased by the choice of entertainment. When the crowd laughed, she sighed, looked off to the palace, elbow on the arm of the chair, dainty fingers holding her chin, deep in thought, her hand preoccupied with something in her lap. Link watched her expression go from brooding and bored to shocked and confused. She looked down. From below the table, her little long-haired dog popped up, planted its paws on her chest, and licked her face. She grinned softly, scratched it's head and massaged its ears, then went back to brooding once it had settled back into her lap after dusting off her pale purple and vair surcoat and examining the spotless, white, beaded cuff of her kirtle.

"Did you not hear, dear? Our Princess sent Lady Impa away. Banished her."

"No—no you must be mistaken. She would never banish Impa."

Link started pouring the wine a little more slowly and wished the man to his left would take a particularly deep swill of wine so he would have an excuse to stay.

"Then why have we not heard any reason for her absence?"

"Perhaps she had gone to investigate."

"Investigate?"

"You know." the woman's voice grew lower, then lower still, "_The Waste_."

Somehow, everyone still heard it. There was a great exclamation. Link jumped, but did not spill a drop of wine, and every one began marking Farore's symbol on their chest and uttering little blessings, invoking her protection from disease.

Link set the glass down and moved on. Between the laughter, particularly furthest from the bard and the King, the gossip was juiciest, either because they were unable to hear the storyteller properly, or because they felt cheated out of the best seats.

"I think it was wholly inconsiderate for Zelda to chose a _peacock_ for the centerpiece. She knows how Arcadians favor them."

"Indeed, a very poor choice."

"I visited Arcadia once—the King has an entire room gilded and covered with amber, and Zelda chooses to mock the Prince so."

"Perhaps she wanted the _Crown _Prince, not his little brother."

"If she wants a rich old man, fine—but she'll only get to him buttering up the younger one."

The frankness and disrespect in their voices stunned him. He felt the urge to say something rising. No one was allowed to talk about Princess Zelda that way! But he felt a gentle nudge at his side. The first course had arrived, a lad carrying a heavy, covered dish. He set it down between the nobles, and Link watched as the treats below were unveiled. Eggs that were boiled twice, the second time with a cracked shell in dark, savory herbs, then peeled, giving them a mosaic-like appearance, fresh grapes, dates stuffed with chopped almonds and thick cream and drowned in honey, tiny lemon tarts and slices of apples wound up in pastries, made to look like a bouquet of roses, dusted with cinnamon and sugar, small tomatoes stuffed with white cheese and basil.

Link glanced at Zelda—she looked hungry, but her mind was clearly elsewhere. She was presented with the first tray, along with the Prince and her Father, and then the steward himself presented her with a smaller tray. She whispered something to him. He shook his head. She hung her head, stroked her dog, then picked up a little morsel from the tray the steward had given her, and hand-fed it to her eagerly begging pet. Link continued to serve wine, and he tried very hard to keep his head down—but as the Bard's tale wore on and the mounds of finger foods gradually disappeared, Link noticed that it became harder and harder to do.

He could not keep his eyes off of Princess Zelda.

She was a... dignified kind of pretty. Any ballad could describe her. Sunshine in her hair, eyes like a deep pool, roses in her lips. She was fair, to be sure. As fair as a meadow of daisies in full bloom. But she had an almost indescribable air about her. This mantle of grace was so powerful that she could be stripped to nothing and he would probably still see her as fully clothed. She was almost untouchable. Ethereal.

The dishes were whisked away, and the next was brought. Three different kinds of fish served together in a dark, strange smelling sauce made of vinegar, sugar, and a medley of spices. Zelda's dog, however, got a little fish pie to himself.

"It's uncivilized, a dog at the royal table!"

Link thought it was cute.

"I have a feeling the Prince's greyhounds will dispose of it soon enough."

"Another good thing from their marriage."

These people were toxic.

The Bard's tale was done by the time the fish was whisked away and a brightly-colored tower of gelatin was brought to the King's table—Link had now idea how such rich color had been imparted to it—perhaps blue berries and cherries? Though, the bright green was harder to explain.

"That? For a little potion? And it was five thousand rupees? _Goddesses,_ what for?"

"I don't know. He did not tell me what—only that he needed it, and he needed me to pick it up for him."

"I think the Prince was playing a joke on you."

"Yes—but if his jokes each give me ten thousand silver ducats, he may play as many as he wishes.

"Oh—the joust!"

"Oh—the goose!"

Ten roast geese, two for each table, were brought from the kitchens, the stuffing of herbs and pears still steaming, Servants carved and distributed it while two knights prepared to joust one another. There was not enough room for Link to serve wine, he had to stand back. Zelda glanced at the man in blue on her father's right—apparently, the Prince that was on everyone's tongues—then she gave her dog a little kiss, whispered something to him, and set him on the floor. It went under her chair, under the King's, to the Prince, and poked its little head inside his long, hanging sleeve. It came out again, shook its head, and crawled back to Zelda with a little glass vial in its mouth. Link fought back a snicker. With it's long hair, it looked like a duster or broom making its way across the dais. Zelda took the vial, examined it, and tucked it between her breasts, kissed her dog twice, and set it down again. It went over to the Cavalier closer to the Duke than to her. Pawed at his leg. He looked down. The dog rolled over, then went back to Zelda.

They shared a glance.

The Cavalier nodded.

The torches flickered, the stars sparkled. The Bard began to play a jovial little ocarina tune while the squires finished securing the knights' armor. The horses shifted uncomfortably, just a little a first, barely a ripple. Then one reared back, nearly pulled up the post it was tied too, and another. Link gasped, turned, fearing they would trample through it all, and instinctively reached for a bow that was not there. His first instinct was one of them had seen a snake, but as he scanned the grass in the candle light, he did not see any disturbance. No snake. No explanation.

The torches flickered, a horse screamed—tried to pull away again, the others shifted uncomfortably around it. Link thought of how the cows had gotten so spooked at Creda, and looked around, wondering who there had the Waste—but if one of them did, the horses would still be disturbed. They were calmed now. The torches stopped flickering for a second, then one was snuffed out briefly, then another. Link turned, but did not see anything responsible for it.

Was it—simply a breeze?

No. Horses were smart. They knew a breeze when they felt it, and they were no stranger to the dark of night. Perhaps it was something smaller than a snake—a field mouse? Why would horses get spooked over a little mouse? Was it simply coincidence that the torches went out? No one noticed—all of the diners were drunk and a servant took a bell taper immediately to relight it.

Link felt a little uneasy. He tightened his grip on the jar of wine and continued to serve.

Something was going on.

Link did not know what, but it was something. He looked to Zelda again. The princess was preoccupied with her white, silken-haired lapdog, and feeding it a another slice of goose. She smiled, teased it lovingly in time with the Bard's jovial ocarina tune and swaying her head, completely forgetting about how she had so detested his poem.

And then she was splattered with blood.

The jar of wine slipped out of Link's hands, breaking on the edge of the table and spilling over a lady's dress and his chausses with a loud crash. Everyone near him was alarmed and offended at first, even the Bard was hushed to silence, but then they saw the expression on Link's face, his eyes slid from Zelda, shocked stiff, too terrified to glance at her father, to the King, who quickly with drew his eating knife from his belly. It was too short to penetrate the layer of fat around his middle, but he did bleed.

Link looked at his face. He was just a terrified and confused as everyone else. His hand moved like he was fighting it every step of the way, slow, resisting. His eyes followed it, growing wide, his mouth moving, "no—no—no."

Link did not know what seized him. He dashed for him, climbing over the table, nearly tripping over a decoration. He slid under the jousting tilt and grabbed the King's wrist before he could stab himself a second time. The knife was trained on his throat. They struggled for a moment—and Link could hardly believe what he was seeing.

A shadow. A human figure. It was exactly like someone was standing behind the King, a hand on his wrist, a hand on his chin, pulling it upwards to give his knife a clear shot. The shadow's image was splashed on the velvet curtains draped behind the king. Long hair, slim fingers. It was a girl's shadow.

She let go.

Link fell backwards into the jousting tilt, the resistance gone. His head hit the wood and he heard a snap. There was a great clamor. Link heard hooves, running, chairs turning over, and Zelda shrieking, "Father—No! Father! No let me go!"

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><p>Review.<p>

Review or the dog is next.


	3. Chapter 3

The Game of Shadows

(disclaimed)

Okay, yeah I GUESS two reviews are enough to let the dog live.

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><p>Chapter three:<p>

Link woke up for a moment, and he heard Old Faron speaking, "This will help with the pain his valor has caused him, Princess."

Link woke up for a moment, and he heard the Steward speaking, "He was not quite _suitable_ to fully present to you, Highness."

Link woke up for a moment, and he was not where he had fallen asleep—but he could only tell because it felt like he was laying on a cloud. It was completely dark. Must be night still. It felt like there was a weight on his chest. He heard a little sob and felt a dampness on his shirt and he realized, there _was_ a weight on his chest. He moved his head up slightly, tried to get a good look, but he just felt a tickle of hair on his chin and neck before a sharp pain cut through his head and he fell into the pillow with a quick groan.

The weight gasped and got up quickly. Link felt a hand on his face and she pleaded, "Link—Link I beg you, stay with the living!"

"Who are you?" it hurt to speak, "How do you know my name? Why can I not see?"

He heard a rustle of fabric and a little sliver of unbearably bright light was let through. It was all he could see until his eyes adjusted. There was one girl there. He could hardly see her face in the light—but she looked like—It must have been a trick. Link reached for the second curtain and roughly tugged it back. The bright light got worse. He cringed, turned his face away and dropped the curtains. But he had gotten a chance to see her, and just a flash of the room around them, all a-glimmer with silver and glass, warmed with soothing blue tapestries on the wall.

"Princess, what is going on?"

Why was he in her _private bed chamber_ of all places? He should be in some not some lower-quality room, guests and royalty remained in their private chambers and the sages came to them for treatment, but never a lowborn servant. He had heard old Faron in his sleep. Had be been made to climb this tower? Surely he was carried up? But why bring Link here, when there were so many alternatives? The Servants had their own infirmary, though perhaps that was crowded with victims of the Waste, and there had been so many guests at the feast, many guests meant many servants. Perhaps hers was the only bed she felt comfortable surrendering for him.

The only alternative would be bed of her father, and he was either recovering in it, or...

"The king—your father—"

It was a whisper, "_He has passed._"

Then, Princess Zelda started crying again. Softly this time, dignified. She closed the canopy around her bed so he could not see it. He turned back around, searched the darkness for the gap and slipped it open with his fingers. The light fell across her face, just to the wall. He could only see it catching a few stray locks of hair, her chin and lips, the tip of her sharp nose, the curve of her waist and leg in her white gown. She covered her eyes with her hands and grew still, fighting off waves of sobbing.

"I—I'm sorry."

His hand dropped. The curtains around the bed closed, and he felt her fingers wrap around his, "I requested Edvard locate you for a very specific reason." she told him. Her voice was soft, barely together. She let him go, remembered their stations, and slipped back. His hand followed hers. She did not let him touch her again. "... such a little thing."

He felt shunned. Like she was a good friend that refused to acknowledge their past, he hissed, "Tell me."

She did not answer his question, "I had Impa searching the kingdom for you—but you were right here. I should have kept her here... If I had, perhaps Father would still..." she did not want to say it, "be with us."

Link did not think Impa could have done much against that shadow. His head felt slightly better, and the rest of him felt fine. It was time to sit up. He pushed himself up on his elbows, adjusted the pillows against the headboard and sat up with his back against it, "What was it that you wanted me to take care of?"

"... Such a little thing."

"Pray, share."

She refused to meet his eyes in the near-darkness. Link leaned forward, opened the curtains just a little bit more to get her to look at him. She "You will think less of me if I say."

"Tell me despite it."

She still did not tell him, "No—no. The Waste bears greater weight now—Impa wrote to me from Kakariko and Zora's Domain. She said it was largely confined to Castle Town. There were two isolated cases outside of it—but both of them had been stricken _inside_ the city walls—and they have not given it to anyone else. It is not contagious, but the source is in the city. I though the Sages would find a cure for the Waste—but now it has become more clear. We are not dealing with a simple wasting disease—"

"You can see the absent shadows?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes!" she seemed gladdened by the knowledge that he saw them, too. "Tis not an effect, as I thought before, but a _cause._ Shadows are being stolen, used as pawns, as slaves, as we both saw last night. But with them, the very hearts of our people are being taken, too. Link," She reached forward, grabbed his hand again, held it in both of hers. Her palms were cool, smooth. "I need you to search the city—please, be my eyes there. I need as many people as I have on the palace, the people inside. I cannot assume my father's murder to be a random display of his ability, this wizard, who ever he may be, _must_ have a foothold already in my court. Someone he will use to claim power in the wake of Father's..." she paused again, "demise, and try to take advantage of my youth and inexperience. They will move quickly. Find the cause of the Waste and bring this traitor to the crown, my father's murder, to justice. Put an end to it. I will give you everything you need. The royal seal, a horse, what ever you like."

It took two seconds for Link to jump to an incredibly rude conclusion. After all, he did not even know then man's _name._

"Say his foothold is the Prince of Arcadia."

She let go of his hand, "Pardon?"

"I saw your dog take that vial from his sleeve." Zelda shifted uncomfortably, glanced somewhere beyond the curtain Link could not see. "It must have been poison. The Wizard responsible for the stolen shadows and that brew may be one in the same. Give me the vial and I'll go at once."

"No." She scooted back a little more, shook her head, "Why would he put poison in my father's goblet when he was fated to die, regardless?"

She had a point.

"But I heard gossip." Link tried again, "The Prince paid someone to fetch a package for him—what ever it was cost him five thousand rupees, suppose—"

"I am fully aware of his actions." Princess Zelda said sharply. Link slouched down into the feather pillows, taken aback. She wanted the subject dropped at once. He felt mislead, cheated, faced with a stone wall that could not be climbed. Zelda was clearly not lying, but she was adamantly opposed to revealing any hint of truth to him. Perhaps, though she thought he was the Goddess' Chosen one, she did not trust him with the greater intricacies of court intrigue. She was going though a great deal, and despite the emotional pain, she probably saw things more clearly than he did. Link felt a twinge of envy for what ever little bird she told her secrets too. It was a fleeting thing, hardly there, Link did not discuss it further.

Zelda stood, disappeared into the bright room outside, closing the curtains behind her. Link leaned forward in the bed and peeked out again. He blinked, let his eyes adjust to the light. Her bed was aligned _directly_ with the rising sun. He did not see where she had gone. He opened the curtains a little more. It was morning—just a bit past dawn.

She must have been up all night watching over him.

That was kind of her.

Zelda returned to the bedside and dropped a pile of something heavy down onto the feather bed beside him. Yet another green tunic—this one much more simple, a darker hue, and looser fitting than the one the Steward had stuffed him into last night, freshly dyed green, mottled and varied with hints of yellows and blue marbled through it, with the scratching feel of new wool, lacing at the neck, at the sides, and open under the arm for movement, with a leather belt and many pouches, and simpler, thicker, white hose. Link heard a clinking of metal rings when he moved them. A shirt of mail, and a new hat, long, meant for trips, a leather base hidden by a linen shell, water tight, to transport water or foraged food. "The clothes you were promised by Edvard." she told him, "And—a few extras from the crown."

She politely gathered up her long skirt and walked to a chair, sitting with her back to him so that he could dress privately. Link found the extras she had referred too. Acher's gloves, and metal-plated bracers for his arms, a simple sword that spent more time on the quality of the steel than any ornamental appearance. It made to last, a sharp edge, long fuller, and a sturdy cross guard with a simple leather chappe just below it to keep the the rain from causing it rust in the scabbard—it was big enough to fit one hand, and use the round, heavy pommel as a less fatal, bludgeoning weapon. A round, convex shield made of linden wood, metal and painted rawhide. It was light weight, but large enough to cover his head and torso if he braced himself behind it, and sturdy enough to defect arrows, swords, and two-handed axes. Last, came a pair of boots. They were quite sturdy, made of soft leather with a shell of boiled leather plates riveted in place. They buckled simply, for ease getting them on and off. Greaves and shoes all in one.

There were other extras, though they were not so choice, and must have been gathered by old Faron, or someone besides the Steward. Some one who knew him a little better. His short hunting bow, twenty arrows in the quiver, and a small knife, unsuitable for combat, but perfect for skinning small game. Link glanced around the room, wondered how many squirrels, rabbits, and stoats he had put there.

The sword and shied added a new, cumbersome weight to his back—but he felt strangely used to it. He did not dare fully draw the weapon in her presence, but when he reached back to brush the leather-bound hilt... He already knew how to use it. He had held it, scabbard and all, for less than a minute, but he knew the blade's weight on it own. He presented himself to her again, this time with a proper bow. He felt like he was falling into old rhythms. Soon she would laugh, tell him to stop being so foolish, and quit fawning over her. Except she did not. Zelda looked him over, and when he glanced at her face—damn, she was pretty. The closest thing he got to a laugh was a sad smile. "Rise. Please."

He obeyed. Of course she would not laugh. Her father was dead. "Is there anything more?"

She nodded, "Yes. From what I have heard—and I have heard very little—the Waste has sown itself in people that go to the Bazaar. Do you know where that is?"

"No."

Zelda set her dog down and got to her feet, gathering up her full skirt. She lead him to the balcony, the dog darting about her feet. Before now, he had not realized how _tall_ her tower really was. The wall itself was about only twenty fee or so, easily scaled, but the tower had a clear view over it. Link could see as far as the edge of the city—and it went right up to the wall. There was no moat between them. This castle was not meant to be a heavily defended position. It was made for peace. Hyrule had plenty of other castles, with moats, better battlements, and fearsome defenses, capable of being under siege for months. This one was simply an extravagantly large and impractical house. The only tactical value it had was in its symbolism. Castle Town was a center of trade because so many people lived there—should the royal family move, everyone else would, too. The palace could be taken easily—less than a week. Though, Link knew next to nothing about war.

"There." With a grand sweep of her hand that either came from years of practice moving with poise and grace, or was simply a consequence of her full sleeves, Zelda pointed. "Do you see Farore's temple?"

Link did see the single, green dome. It was twelve-sided, and the shades of green came from glass tiles that reflected the sunlight. The building was made to reflect her cypher, backed by a marble crescent, slightly lower, and at ground-level, probably a low wall or garden. Link checked the position of the sun—during the equinox, the sun would rise just behind it. It stood proud, a good twenty feet or so above the rest of the town beside it, which was made of plainer stone, But there was so much _more_ to see. Nayru's Temple, Din's Temple, each had their specific places in the city. They were aligned with the winter and summer solstice sunrises.

"Do you see it?"

"Yes. I see it."

"The Bazaar will be there. You can just see some of the stalls—that patch of bright color there."

She grabbed his arm, tugged him nearer, so their faces were close and he could see exactly what she saw. Link was pulled close so suddenly he stumbled and had to grab her to keep from falling over. She did not notice his hand on her waist or the sudden heat in his face against hers, though they were cheek to cheek—but he did see what she was talking about. A white tent, so old it was browned and yellowed from years of use and travel. A blue and white striped awning over a fruit stand peeking out behind two stone buildings, pressed next to Farore's temple.

But that was not as interesting to look at as _she_ was. The sunlight made her skin glow, her hair shine as a few locks fell from the cap she wore it under, stiffed with horse hair and covered with satin and pearls. Link swallowed dryly and tried to adjust his balance so he did not have to cup her waist for support She held him firmly, and she was not letting him go. He could easily get accustomed to such closeness. She smelled nice. Like sage and rosemary.

She had just lost her father. Such thoughts were out of place. To distract himself, he asked, "And that is where you think I should start looking?"

"Yes—I would accompany you, but I must..." She paused, drew her hand back to her heart. Link looked to her and she blinked quickly, trying to hide the tears that were pooling in her eyes, "I am expected to be seen _here." _She turned to him, noticed they were uncomfortably—Link was quite comfortable, really—close. She stepped away, muttered, "Forgive me, that was rude."

She stooped down and lifted her dog up, providing a fluffy, squirming barrier between them. It did not want to be held. Rather than set it down, she held firmly to it, returned to her chair. Link followed. Any consolation he could offer seemed empty. She was not interested in speaking anymore. Not him personally—just anyone. Everyone was going to be met with that same stone wall at any offered comfort. Instead of trying, placing a hand on her shoulder or her hand, he touched the back of her chair and told her, "I'll return soon."

She did not look at him, "Thank you, Link." her voice was small, but even. When he reached the door, she spoke again, "Before nightfall. Please. Tell me everything you find."

He turned to look at her once more. Her eyes had gotten red-rimmed. He bowed his head, "Yes—of course."

On the other side of the door there were two Cavaliers—neither one from the night before. They gave Link a respectful nod, but otherwise said nothing to him. They did not stand on ceremony like last night, either, with only swords. Each one had a fearsome, powerful, tall shield with them, which was so heavy it had to be wielded with two hands. Link had watched the Cavaliers duel before. Their shields were weapons on their own, tipped with a blade on each end, capable of tearing locked doors from their hinges, delivering a slamming full-body blow, and sweeping an opponent off their feet with their hooked edges.

He went down the absurdly long staircase and wondered how Zelda managed it every day. There were landings, other floors. Link passed six doors, none of them were locked. The further down they were, the less private they were. The first door was a private bath—Link wondered what magic was employed to get the water to come up so high. The next simply an open room, no furniture, nothing. Perhaps were she took her dancing lessons, how she had learned to move with grace and float just a hair about the ground as she walked. The second was clearly a study room, with two small writing tables and comfortable, but not opulent, chairs. They were made simply for the task of writing her lessons, with an incline above a little shelf to hold the books up, so her graceful sleeves did not smear her words, and a lower, flat, side section at her right hand, holding a quill laid down beside a waiting inkwell, and a stack of vellum-bound books.

Directly below that there was a library, and the next door was a private sitting room that doubled as a music room. There was a large harp sitting on a raised dais beside the window, and five pale blue reclining couches, covered with an array of silk and brocade cushions, surrounding a low table with a silver and mother-of-pearl tea service. There were other silver and ceramic dishes in a cupboard, proudly displayed. She could host a three course dinner in there if she wanted too, for a few, intimate favorites. The walls were lined with tapestries depicting the old legends, great, historical battles. The floor was covered by imported, woven rugs and there were plenty of blankets, folded under the table.

Behind the next door was the Prince of Arcadia and two Cavaliers.

It was a guardhouse. With many comfortable chairs, but like the study room, they were basic needs only. There was a square table, big enough for two to take a meal, or four to play a game of cards and enjoy heavy ale, and a cot on the far side, should one of them need to sleep. They could screen anyone coming in, and rush up stairs at the first call for help from the sitting room above.

As soon as the Prince of Arcadia saw the door was opened, he made a rush for it, only to have his way blocked by the Cavaliers, who crossed their shields in front of him, blocking his way. He exclaimed, "I _demand_ to see Princess Zelda!"

He was promptly shoved backwards by a very slight Cavalier. The guard's hat was knocked off by the force, and a long coil of dark hair tumbled down. A lady. Link never would have known from behind. The Prince tumbled back into a chair with so much force the wooden legs scraped the stone with a splitting groan. Curious, Link slipped into the room, and he saw that he was older than he had previously thought. Nearing thirty, or at the very least, late twenties. Dark eyed, but fair-haired, and a little Hylian blood, too, judging by the slight point to his ears. His hair was long, curled and full of volume. He was alarmingly pretty, in a structured and cultivated way, and had a feel about him that you had to get close to understand. Vain and shifty, Link would go so far as to say he was _slimy._ A personality a bit like the feel of raw trout. Oily to the touch, cold, leaving a sensation on the skin that could not easily be washed away.

He did not like him.

"And Her Highness," said a raspy-voiced Cavalier, "Has demanded that you not be allowed in her presence until further notice. And no matter how much you fuss, _we_ obey her Highness, not you."

"And when was this order given?"

"Last night." said the lady. She looked at the face of her shield, wiped away an imaginary spot of grime, "Under no circumstances should the Peacock—that's you—be allowed into her chambers. This is as far into her Ladyship's tower as you go."

"I find it in very bad form that you did not leave her Highness in peace to mourn her father, and pay your respects to the family in the throne room, where the good king waits in repose—what makes you so special, that you could intrude upon his daughter, so?"

The Prince did not address the issue. He changed the subject completely, gestured to Link, "And who, then, is that?"

"Do you not recognize him, sir? He is the bold serving boy that tried vainly to preserve his Majesty's life. Better than you did. Her Highness's Champion."

Link really wished she had not said that. That made him seem skilled and efficient in some way. He was neither one. Everyone in the room knew it, "_That_ vagrant is allowed a private audience?"

"That vagrant was given special orders by her Highness. Sir Link, be on your way. We've kept far worse from entering Zelda' tower."

Link did not move. He did not appreciate being called a vagrant. He really did not appreciate what the Prince said next. He addressed Link directly, spitefully, glaring at him haughtily. "In Arcadia, a worm like you would have his eyes gouged out for even _thinking_ himself worthy to gaze upon a princess."

The strangest though came to Link then: _End him._

It was nothing. A hiss on his shoulder. Barely there, but it was persistent, for a moment; _end the lily-fingered trout. He can have anything he wants, and he knows it, too—yet the second he reaches a road block, he starts to wail like a child._

Link shifted positions slightly, felt his hand brush the hilt of his sword, and before he could hear metal scraping metal, or the rain guard catching against the leather binding of the hilt, he heard a calm and collected voice from the hall, "Your Highness, _you_ gaze upon me all the time, and though I view the court jester as a better match than you, I do not complain."

Link turned, too stunned to speak. he expected to see Zelda in the doorway, but she was not there-she was a bit above them, still on the stairs, standing before here were the two Cavaliers that had been posted behind her door. Link wondered how she had caught up with him, or how she knew he was in the room, when he had left so long ago—but then he realized he had wasted quite a bit of time peeking through doors. She had obviously anticipated the Prince's arrival, and she only had to hear a bit of the conversation to figure out what was going on. The prince himself was invigorated. He shoved past the Cavaliers, stuffed shirt swelling with pride and excitement, "Milady, I—"

Elevated above them, Zelda stroked her dog for comfort—under the surface, Link worried she was nervous, but she did not stutter. "Link has done you no harm. You will not belittle the servants of Hyrule castle—Especially not in my presence."

The Prince was not stunned. He was clearly used to Zelda's sharp words. He seemed a little more confused than anything. He stammered something, Zelda spoke over him, "It is disrespectful to our nation. It is disrespectful to my late father, and to the Steward, who selected each servant, particularly mine, based on their honorable nature and many years of loyal service. How can I trust you to rule Hyrule's citizens, when you cannot even treat them kindly?"

The lady Cavalier and the red-headed one moved into place before her, a four man barricade between Link and the Peacock, and Zelda. The Prince seemed to think, despite her words and biting tone, Zelda was easy to be swayed, "In my country, when a servant misbehaves he is—"

"And in _Hyrule—_" for the first time, she looked at him directly, her eyes half shut, her chin up, looking down her refined, straight nose. She did not care for him, "When two _men_ create a rift that cannot be mended with words, they face each other as the goddesses intended, in fair and honorable combat. Though, in your case, even the most despicable and ugly attempt to gain the upper hand would simply result in a slightly _more_ equal playing field. Against this lad," she gestured to Link, and he was positive he saw her smile fondly, "You would _surely_ fail."

There was that little voice again, _Damn straight._

Though, Link had never fought _anyone_ before. He thought one white-handed noble man on his own was no threat. In a fair fight—no archers on the battlements, no bodyguards waiting to avenge his death, Link could wipe the floor with him. However, any fight they had would never _be_ fair, because he was a nobleman, and he had—whether he deserved them or not—archers on battlements and body guards waiting to avenge his death. Link glanced to him. He seemed stunned. Not because he had been insulted, exactly, but because he had genuinely expected to be met with open arms here. Link tilted his head, wondering if it was imagined, or—was that really _poison_ Zelda's dog had taken from his sleeve? Had he thought to slip her a love potion during the feasting? Link looked to Zelda again. She did not seem to be under the effects of any sort of potion. Link shook his head. There was no such thing. The Prince had been fooled by a charlatan in the bazaar. It was a common thing.

And he had spent five thousand rupees on it, the fool! Link snickered. Only the Prince of Arcadia noticed. He spun around quickly, peacock feather nearly slipping out of his hat, golden curls bouncing. Moving so ferociously that his perfectly placed clothes were jumbled and askew in a matter of seconds. Zelda yelped slightly, took a half step back. He took two steps towards Link, Link took a step back, bumped into the wall, and braced for a strong backhand before Zelda shouted, "Don't—you—_dare._"

It was loud. Link had no idea she could project so easily. He felt the walls quake with her voice, but it served its purpose. The Peacock's hand did not strike home. Good thing too. That diamond ring on his finger cold do serious damage if he struck him hard enough—if he could strike him hard enough. The Prince adjusted his clothes back into order, fixed his hat, and said to Link, "How very fortunate for you—you have her Highness's favor. You would do well to remember that in Arcadia, it is death to raise a hand against a noble."

"Then _you_ would do well to remember, Prince, that one of the duties I now hold is that of granting royal pardons. Link will simply not strike you while on Arcadian soil."

It was a mumble, something she was probably not meant to hear, "Hyrule will be allied with Arcadia soon enough."

"I will _not_ see Hyrule suffer under the whims of a foreigner!" Zelda's voice grew alarmingly shrill. Even her bodyguards jumped, "A man who believes that power is equal to a vein of silver in the ground, and will forsake his duties to the land, his people, until all one coin will buy a man is less than a handful of barley. I will not let Hyrule's children starve for your treasure. Sir Evan, Lady Ashei. Remove this man from my sight at once. Escort him to his chambers and see that his belongings are all packed. You are hereby banished. Do not return to Hyrule again. If any one under my command finds you in Castle Town by nightfall, if you are still inside Hyrule's Borders in five days time, your disappearance will be complete. Your end will be final. You will burn upon the pyre of your own ego."

There was a long pause. The Prince of Arcadia moved slowly at first, he took a half step forward, Zelda cried out and took a step back. Her little dog jumped from her arms, barking wildly at the Prince, and one of her Cavaliers wedged his long shield between the walls of the staircase, took a step back, and locked himself securely in place. Two more, Ashei and Evan blocked his path. The Prince of Arcadia was getting no where. Either he would have to suffer the indignity of climbing over or clawing under, both an equally unappealing way of circumventing obstacles. Zelda's dog slipped through it all, and its small jaws clamped down on the Prince's ankle, though this was no playful heel nip. This was a direct and calculated attack upon the tendon, a deliberate move on incapacitate the Prince's left leg. Its teeth cut through fabric and flesh, and tore a small, very effective hole where the skin was thinnest. Then, before the Prince could kick it, the dog retreated back to Zelda's arms, where it perched and snarled.

And then he was forcibly carried from the tower, spluttering indignant protests all the way down the last few stairs, to the open antechamber at the base of the tower, still wailing about the indignity, the wickedness of either the dog, or Zelda—either way, such language! Link followed. He had a suspicion now, it was hooked into he back of his mind and did not let go. It lured him down the stairs, keeping a careful eye on the Peacock, what a fitting name for him. The Prince did not go to the drawbridge. He allow himself to be escorted away; _doubtless_, that little voice of instinct whispered to him, _to lull them into a false sense of security. He is up to something._

Link tried to shake the voice off. Zelda had said she knew his every move, and Link was just a pawn, a scout, at best at this point. She had no time to fill him on every little detail of court intrigue. There was a great deal going on above him—he was simply a farmer watching storm clouds. It could either be a great, ruining deluge, or the very shower he needed, or perhaps a damaging hailstorm.

_But did see the way he looks at her? It just screams bad news._

_S_hould he really care how he looked at her? That was hardly his business.

Maybe it was not—but he still cared.

* * *

><p>The Cavalier's shields are based off of German dueling shields used in judicial combat—they're weirdly shaped until you know how to use them. Then, they're awesome. I wanted to give Link one, because he won't get the Master Sword or a long bow (but he might get a francisca)—maybe I still will.<p>

Tried to introduce shadow a little bit more here—so his personality, the, "I'm just a regular dude with an abrasive personality and some unpopular opinions—I'm you with no self-control" (his words) did not come completely out of left field when he officially joins the cast. I don't think it worked out to well.

Also, green dyes, specifically, the bright, consistent green we are used to Link wearing, totally not possible. Dyes from green plants (spinach, mint or pine) are all more brownish greens than you would expect, not actually pretty colors. You CAN get a bright green by dyeing the garment in individual pieces, first in either turmeric (expensive!) or yellow onion shells, other yellows, from flowers, would be too flimsy and pale for the next step, which is dyeing the fabric with indigo and I'm guessing vinegar because indigo is not water-soluble. However, Indigo is not like other plant dyes. The color is the result of oxidation, meaning you can't stir it, otherwise oxygen would get in and spoil the dye, and it is very strong. Madder, which is used for reds, takes hours to work, but indigo take about ten minutes or so.

However, because the dye cannot be stirred, the color often comes out uneven.

Sort of like medieval camo...


	4. Chapter 4

The Game of Shadows

(Disclaimed)

If this were a video game—this part would be a mini game: gather as much information as possible with out causing mass panic.

* * *

><p>Chapter four:<p>

Despite what Zelda had said, Link still suspected the Prince of Arcadia.

Which was quite rude. He did not know his proper name.

Still—Zelda had bigger plans for him, and she was right, the Waste was far more important than any Arcadian Peacock. So Link obeyed her, and instead of lurking about the castle gate, (like that little whisper advised, then pleaded, then _scolded_ him for not doing) waiting for the lowly fellow to slink out in shame, he headed to the Bazaar.

On his way, he heard the gossip of the day, gentry talking amongst themselves, swaggering slowly with their bucklers and rapiers to one side, lovely companions on the other. Women mincing quickly to the Bazaars and markets with baskets at their hips or on their heads. Only once did Link hear a whispered inquiry as two who _he_ was. He was largely unnoticed. He heard things that he could not confirm; the desert of last nights feast, had been little individual marchpane treats, flavored with raspberry, blueberry, and lime sauces, and for the King's table, a replica of the castle made of light, fluffy cake, that used so much spice, and was covered with so many fruits and flowers crystallized in so much sugar, it caused the royal treasurer to faint, once he saw that, oh no, it was _not_ simply a hollow creation made of different pieces glued with egg white, but a completely accurate map of the castle, floor-by-floor, filled with sweet, marchpane figurines that had taken painstaking days to craft. If such a thing had been made—it had been for nothing. One of the courses, he had heard, but certainly _never_ saw, had been a comically arranged pairs of roasted turkeys upon suckling pigs, made to look as though they were jousting.

"And wouldn't you know how our Princess had them adorned?"

Link matched pace a little ways behind so he could hear as the woman continued speaking.

"I have a brother—he works in the kitchens, you know—"

"Yes, yes I _know_ get on with it!"

"Out of the ten jousting turkeys, five were made up in the colors of her suitors countries, Arcadia, Moria, Catalia, so forth—and the five others were dressed only in green, given the Master Sword of Legend, or so I was told, and one was place right in front of Prince Facade. Her message was quite clear to him."

"Aye, if that's not a firm no I can't imagine what would be. But still—I've not heard a word on who the king did choose at the end of the feasting? He was supposed to."

"I've not heard, either."

Link stopped completely—gossip on uneaten dishes was one thing. While there was no _way_ that story about the replica castle was true, there were men in the kitchen who enjoyed talking about the fantastic creations they made for feasts, but there were also nobles at the feast and servants, and all had witnessed the King's death. It had been shocking and probably changed the course of Hyrule's history—and no one outside the palace knew?

And that was no surprise. With the Waste about, news of the King's death and the suspicious circumstances around it, would bring mass panic. An incomplete explanation would cause unease, and some fool would connect it to the Waste, and the knowledge of a lie would make the truth even more unbearable. He could not bring news of the King's death—clearly there had been some kind of order issued to keep that information secret, with respect to Zelda and the troubled times. He could not bring news of the Waste, either. If he told anyone that its origin had been linked to the Bazaar, every one would avoid it. The economy would freeze, and slowly crumble.

Gossip had turned from the food to the real savory of last night's feast—Who in Farore's good name had the King chosen for his daughter's hand?

Was it Ertegun of Catalia, that red-headed duke with a quick temper and a promising military career? Or perhaps the noble Sir Charles of Moria, their greatest knight, and the Queen's favorite? And what of the Princes from Holodrum and Labrynna? Or was it the King's favorite, the fabulously wealthy Facade of Arcadia?

Well—now Link knew his name. He felt free to suspect him all he liked.

_Yes. _That nagging voice in his head agreed, _A plague to him._

Link decided the best place to start, before going to the Bazaar, was to gather as much information from Farore's temple as he could. He walked to the main tower, and found, instead of congregation, about twenty or so children learning their letters on the first two pews. Link had a few memories of his schooling—mostly he remembered sitting on the far edge of the pew and staring out the window to the woods while Creda constantly prodded him so he would pay attention to some lesson that Old Faron—when he was slightly younger—managed to drag from fifteen minutes to two unbearable hours. It was a terrible way to spend his afternoons. He had learned the old system of writing, sharp and made for carving into wood and stone. The newer system was made for ink, paper and vellum, and flashy, regal documents. Curving, turning from clear runes to unreadable mush before his eyes. He knew next to nothing about history, and old Faron had always joked, _"Ah, young Link is such a hands-on learner... perhaps he would prefer to _make_ history rather than learn it."_

He wondered, for a while, how to breech the subject delicately. Children where much worse about rumors and gossip than adults were. An adult, upon hearing something like, "A wizard is turning victims of the Waste into shadow puppets for regicide" would scoff, so long as they heard it once. Not a child. Not so many children. They would run with it, spread it like wildfire—and they would spread it to their parents, and after hearing such a tale _so many times_ they would begin to believe it.

So, the first thing would be to ask for a more private room to talk, out of reach of so many ears.

The second thing would be to take his association with Princess Zelda out of it. Probably a good idea to avoid giving anyone the impression that he was the Chosen One, too, just for good measure.

Zelda really should have put him in blue or yellow or something less... obvious.

There was a great clamor from the belfry. A young woman's voice, "Oh! Oh come and see! A fine spectacle approaches!"

Link expected the sage leading the class to admonish his disciple—but he gathered up his long robes and climbed the stairs to the choir's loft and up to the bell tower, proving he was quite spry for an old man. His class scrambled up behind him. The older ones daring to climb the ladder, the younger ones staying behind, trying to get a good look from the lower windows. Link followed. He climbed the ladder and arrived just in time to see the gate rise and a host of Arcadian cavalrymen ride out. Then game a gilded cage drawn by horses, housing three slim and stately greyhounds. Link had to squint to see them, they were so far away.

"Is Prince Facade leaving?"

Finally—the sorry fellow had slinked out of the gates!

_Good riddance, _Link thought to himself as he climbed higher up the tower, to the axle that held the bell securely in place. He could see little glimpses between the houses and businesses clustered by the gates, he made a grand show of it. Leaving with a host of servants and splendidly arrayed yes-men, even their _horses_ dressed in their best finery. The Prince himself was secluded in a gold and ebony carriage drawn by six white horses. It was loaded down with luggage. No one would mistake this procession for a mere pleasure trip. People flocked to it, calling his name, fawning over him, their arms upheld like they were expecting him to throw silver from the windows.

Knowing the Prince, that was precisely what he would do.

"I would swear that the Prince came with _five_ hounds—yet I only see three."

"Perhaps two have died?"

"One perhaps—two is unlikely."

Two was unlikely. She was right. "He has a Herald reading something out."

"Alas, if only we could hear him!"

"I am sure someone will come along and spread the word—what else are neighbors for? It should be here soon. Though, I suspect it is merely bitter posturing. Clearly _he_ is not her Highness's betrothed."

"Then I have won our wager!"

"Not yet."

Link watched the procession until he could not see it anymore. It had headed towards the square, which was closer to Nayru's temple and out of his line of sight. He climbed down the belfry, back to the disciple, who had gone back to her mopping, muttering about the fine details of an agreement, a betting pool with all of the acolytes, which the sage had not been exempt. Link climbed down the ladder, but this time, he did not go unnoticed. Every child in the pews looked to him, began to turn around and inquire of their fellows, interrupting the Sage's very important history lesson by asking, "Who is that? Who _is_ that!?"

Link stopped, tried to look like he had nothing to hide. Foolishly, he had not though about how he would answer any of the inevitable questions. _Not the truth_. That was all he knew to say. _Lie._

The sage settled the children effortlessly, lifting his hands, palms down, and lowering them, hissing softly, "Shhhh, shhhh." until they regained their composure, settling politely into their seats. "Who might you be, my son?"

"I am Link—"

_Din's Fire, what is _wrong_ with you!?_

The children all gave a great exited clamor, gradually getting more and more out of control—the sage was not able to contain them. Link cringed, took a step back, but that was all he did. He held his ground. He heard a splash from the belfry and the clatter of the mop across the boards. Link had to move again. The water splashed down where he stood, barely wetting his right side. He looked up, adjusted his hat, and was tackled by a waist-high mob of exited children, fingers and sleeves covered in chalk, asking him too many questions at once to even begin to hear.

His first thought was to freeze, but he knew that would only make them more adamant for his attentions. His second thought was to scream at them to be silent, but that might frighten them, or worse, anger the sage, or perhaps a parent, and simply serve to make the situation worse.

He said firmly, "Now calm down!"

Gradually, the did as they were told, walking away, still hoping for his attention as they returned to their seats in the pews. His name may cause excitement, but it also provided comfort, he supposed. The old sage smiled at him, patted his hand, "It's good to know the Goddesses have sent you to us in the dire time."

"I was wondering if we might speak privately?"

The sage looked over his shoulder and nodded to an acolyte that had been dusting a bronze candelabra, a silent request for him to finish the lesson. He nodded back, set down his dampened rag after folding it neatly, so the dryest part was down, and took the sage's place, speaking in a quiet, calm tone. The Sage then took Link by the elbow and guided him to a secluded office, when they were beyond all ears, he asked, "I suppose, you've come to inquire about the Waste."

Link was glad the subject was not difficult to breech, "Yes. How long ago _exactly_ did it start?"

"Four weeks and... Let's see—It was Gildenday. The last Gildenday in Darunas—the first was brought to Nayru's temple on the other side of town."

That was going to be a lot of walking—but it was Hyliasday now, in Ilenas. "Four weeks and two days."

"So it has been." The sage nodded solemnly, "So many victims in such a short time."

A month's time. Link did not say much. He held his chin, looked down, and thought for a moment. He did not know what was _by_ the temple of Nayru—but it was more likely to have an inn nearby that the temples of Din or Farore. Suppose the wizard dropped into town, checked in, and started taking victims from day one? That would be risky. It would be part of a trail anyone could follow, should they investigate, "And who was it?"

"A scholar. A very learned and wise man by the name of Shad. I knew him well. I had spoken to him just a day before."

That placed him near the bazaar, Link thought to himself, not the inn. "Did he go anywhere after speaking with you?"

"Yes—of course. He usually gets medicine from an old apothecary in the bazaar. He suffered from terrible headaches."

"For how long?"

For now, the Sage did not seem suspicious of these questions, "From his boyhood."

"Can I speak to the apothecary?"

"No, I'm afraid you can't—you can speak to her grandson, though. He's there."

"The Waste?"

"No." the sage shook his head, "Too much blood in her veins. One burst. Just here. I told her to go for a blood letting," the sage pointed to the left side of his head, "But ah, you know the stubbornness of the elderly. Certainly a better way to die than the Waste. Happened just before that day—The fellow said he was going to find a new apothecary—he's gripped with terrible fear of the pain his affliction causes him. I told him the only one there was the new fellow, calls himself doctor, what ever that may mean—and that the apothecary's grandson would arrive in a few days time. I told him not to trust that new fellow. When you are old you can sniff out the frauds—and that man's no fraud, but he still has an air to him. He's a wicked man. I told the children never to go near him."

"And he ca—" Link stopped himself before he could draw a line from the Waste to the man in question, "Had he been there long?"

"No—showed up less than five days before. He said he was a traveling merchant. I wish he would leave."

Might be coincidence—might not be. Regardless, Link had something solid to investigate now. Perhaps the sage was seeing things that were not there, but after speaking to him, even _Link_ had started to grow wary of this 'doctor' and he had never once laid eyes on him. He changed the subject, set up a few false trails—after all, he still wanted to put as much distance between 'The Waste,' 'The Bazaar,' and 'the King's Death' as possible. So he asked about a few symptoms—and found that it was true, only he and Zelda could see the missing shadows. Link wondered why—but he said nothing about it.

He wrapped up the conversation and left the church. The business had taken about half an hour or so. He went to the Bazaar in search of the Doctor's little plot. The Bazaar's true nature had been hidden. Link had thought it was a single street, maybe two, but it was a maze of slapdash stalls and tents that stretched across a wide, open square. There were remnants of stone pathways, but they had been traveled so frequently they were simply pebbles and bits of mortar in dry dust, and no one treated them like roads anymore. The Bazaar was open to anyone willing to sell anything. Even themselves. Some merchants were there so little time, their shop was simply a blanket on the ground on the outskirts. There were so many, they leaked out into the streets leading too it. Bards and beggars, too.

"Fine beads!"

"Charms to guard against the Waste!"

There was a fish monger and a baker trying to scream over each other as they touted their wares in the more established, permanent storefronts along one of the high walls. These walls were so high, half of the bazaar was covered in shadow in the early morning, some storefronts did not receive direct light until noon, making them very popular with merchants selling perishable foods that needed cool shade to stay fresh.

"Bread baked just five minutes ago!"

"Fish caught just this morning!"

"You've never tasted anything finer! It's barley and beer but you'll swear it's wheat!"

"I was up at five in the morning for this fish!"

"I toiled for hours grinding the grain!"

Next to them was a weaver who said nothing, aside from a muttered, "My work speaks for itself—my rugs and blankets can be found in Princess Zelda's tower." Link touched a rug on display—the pattern did look familiar, and the skill was unmatched. "A woolen replica of one found in the reception room—hers is silk."

Link moved on past a vendor sitting behind bright, eye catching sacks of fragrant, colorful spices, a vast array from sweet to savory. Flowers, hibiscus, camomile, and cloves, even the local, plain clover, and seeds, coriander, cumin, pepper, mustard and poppy, to roots and leaves and other bits, like ginger, horseradish, cinnamon bark, vanilla beans still in the pod, bay and rosemary, ground saffron, all of it giving off a lush fragrance in the drying dew of the morning. There was something from everywhere.

Set up right next to it were two Gerudo women, fresh out of the desert. One was selling her wares—long strings of glass beads that were highly prized in the desert for the skill required to craft them. They had been so prized at one point that they were used along side strings of pearls for currency, the desert, and the fields of Hyrule, did not have much metal—what they had was the rupee. Naturally growing crystals, no bigger than a fingertip, that were valued by the rarity of their color. Any metal was under the control of the Gorons, proud craftsmen that refused to let the beauty of silver, gold, and even the hidden handsomeness of iron be wasted as currency. A bar of silver, which spelled wealth to another nation, was wasted space and beauty to a Goron.

The Gerudo, recently, had found great stores of metal in the desert. Copper. Like pearls and beads, they wore their coins on strings, ten, twenty in length, when they walked, the chiming was a blatant way for them to show their wealth—as opposed to the silencing, stifling purses favored by other kingdoms. They still held long strings of glass beads in high favor, for the way they glinted in the sunlight, and for how easily they could be adapted, wrapped into hair, about wrists, and ankles, not just the neck, for adornment.

"You'd be worth about thirty or so feet of them—the strings of beads, that is."

Link was not quite sure how to react to that.

He knew how he wanted to react of course, a firm no, but that would be rude. He did not exactly want to say thank you, either. That might be seen as encouragement, "It's nice of you to say so."

"You got a lass?"

It was best to lie, "Yes."

"I won't tell her if you don't."

_Nayru's love I don't even _know_ you!_

Time to move on.

Next to her was another, perhaps a cousin, a sister or a friend, selling a Gerudo staple, a dish of rice and beans, chickpeas and lentils, topped with fried onions, and served with a sauce of tomato and cumin dressed with vinegar infused with garlic, and minced roasted hot pepper for the extremely daring, washed down with strong black tea. She was too focused to serving up the dish at a frightening speed to speak to Link.

He thought about finding the Apothecary's grandson first, but the grandson had clearly not been the cause, and he would not know anything about it, so he set out to find the Doctor the sage had told him of. He was not hard to find. The Doctor's shop was a large white tent with a crude wooden sign above, supported by two wooden pillars, wrapped in cloth and holding the flaps that served as a door open wide.

_Doctor Operimen's Marvelous Mystical Remedies for All Ailments. _The sign above the tent door read in bold, colorful letters. _Tarot readings, palmistry, tea leaves. _The paint was peeling, but the spirit of it remained. The sign directly beside the door was just as old, covered with a layer of dirt kicked up by the bustle of the Bazaar, with a message that caught his eye. _Love Potion of Eternal Devotion, guaranteed to give you a love more pure than the Hero and the Goddess. The Object of your Desire will want nothing but solitude and you_—o_nly one rupee_.

What? Just _one _rupee? For what? Clearly some water infused with herbs and honey and dyed red with beet juice. No such cheap concoction could grant such love—Clearly, love potion was not what the Prince had wasted five thousand rupees on.

_Glove Cleaner. Inquire within._ Was written in sloppy, plain letters below it; small and careless, it blended in like an ugly after-thought, a mumble the sign maker had wanted no one to see—though the Doctor still needed to advertize it. Five thousand dollars on... simple leather oil? There must be some nuance, some inside joke of the Doctor's, that Link was not privy too.

Link entered the tent. It was cool inside, lit only from the light that came through the roughly-woven fabric—probably hemp. No lanterns, no candles, nothing, and considering the floor was padded with woven straw mats, Link was not surprised. Nothing _looked_ amiss, save the absence of the Doctor himself. It seemed to Link that the fellow was no poisoner or evil wizard. He was simply an apothecary that chose to glorify himself for the sake of business.

Glass jars, stuffed with dried herbs and slightly more unsavory bits of dead animal, preserved in sea-salt brine, were arranged and clearly labeled on collapsible shelves that might have cleverly re-constructed into crates. Bits of the straw used to pack them clung to the unsanded wood, indicating a recent arrival, but there was also a layer of dust between the jars, indicating he had been here for a while.

Too inconclusive for him to start accusing the man.

He had found the elusive miracle "love potion." It was made in a cheap glass vial, roughly blown with many imperfections, bumps and bubbles in the green glass. They had plain cork stoppers. It looked more like mud—and mud was putting it politely. Link picked up one, murky, clumpy, greenish-brown. Clearly, it was not something that could be slipped imperceptibly into food or wine. It must have a foul taste to it. Link could not imagine anything _pleasant_ with a look like that.

Link set the vial down and turned his attention to a table in the center of the room. There was a small silver basin with a small, round crystal sphere in the center, no bigger than the palm of his hand, the silver basin about as large as his hand, fingers outstretched. There were charts of the heavens, a map of Hyrule, a little print of a human body, parts labeled in a quick scrawl that did not look Hylian. He was trying his hand at astronomy and anatomy—a learned man, too.

Link heard a murmur, a distant whisper that he could not place. When he paused, pretended to be occupied, he could pick up many different voices speaking at once. He thought, at first, that he was just hearing the market place—but the market place was loud and all around him. It was not a quiet place. The thin hemp fabric of the tent did not cut out the noise around him. It should have been to loud to hear anything above a mutter, and yet, there it was, he could hear it as plainly as if it was the dead of night and that whisper was all there was to hear. It was small, like the chirping of a cricket beyond a window or a rustle of fabric over his shoulder.

Link stopped, strained his ears in the cool dimness of the tent and listened intently. Even still—he could not make out a single word. He felt a sudden tug, and he turned. There was a tapestry up, a pretty thing, suspended from the yew beams that held up the fabric roof. It was old, faded, the black fabric changed by the sun to a deep grey-green, the white tarnished to a yellow. There was no scene. That was common for tapestries from the north side of Hyrule, where the winters were so cold everything became a blanket—and no one was comfortable sleeping on a great historical scene sewn generations ago. Those were works of art, made with real velvet and gold. This was hand-sewn scraps of wool arranged in a pattern, and tacked down to a backing of linen and a little down.

And there was something _solid_ behind it. Link looked it up and down, there was a little wooden frame peeking out below it. He took the tapestry between two fingers, prepared to move it just a little bit to take a peek behind.

"What are you doing here?"

Link jumped, jerked his hand away from the tapestry, "Oh!"

He saw a man, mid thirties perhaps, frantically gathering up the parchment on the table and stuffing it all away between the pages of an un-named vellum-bound book. Link caught a glimpse of the title page, but could not read it. It was gone in a flash. The man cleared his throat, and put that one book away under two others, that had been gathering dust under the crystal ball on its silver stand, then said, trying to cover for his moment of panic with a thin veneer and hastily smoothed wrinkles. "Ah—I've been expecting you."

He probably said that to every one that came in. He was a friendly-looking man, wide eyed and smooth-faced. Dark haired, blue eyed. He sat down at the table. Now that the paper was clear, Link saw that it was covered with an ornate cloth. A length of silk.

Link wondered what he could say that would not sound suspicious, "I—um."

He was not succeeding. He grew curious about the book, but he pulled his eyes away from it, put them back on the man. The man glanced at the book, and there was an uncomfortable pause. Link wondered if he was truly guilty of any wrongdoing—accusing him would be rude, while letting go, particularly after raising his suspicions, would put more people in danger. He may flee after he left, go on to plague a new city and leaving his victims in this town to gradually fade away.

The man indicated a little oak stool opposite him, half-hidden beneath the buttery length of silk, an unspoken urge for him to sit. The pause continued still, and Link wondered what to say. The sun vanished behind a cloud for a moment, the noise outside came to a quiet lull, and then the Doctor said, "Please, I can see you are a man of many questions, and I have so many ways to divine answers. Link, I can only aide you in your quest. Sit."

Hearing his name after he had never once given it sent chills running every which way. He felt strange, like someone was frantically trying to get his attention out of the corner of his eye, tugging on his arm or shaking his shoulder violently. "I—I never—"

"What more proof, than knowledge of your name, do you need to see I know all already?"

Link did not sit. Instead, he leaned forward, planted his hands on the table, "Tell me, if you know all already, then why have you not applied such fantastic powers to the Waste?"

The Doctor laughed uncomfortably.

"Tell me, what do you know of it?"

"I—I know only of what I see, Sir Link."

"Then you would know I am no Sir."

He laughed again, "Oh—but I know all. Past, present, and future. Come, let me show you."

Link did not want to be shown. Doctor Operimen took the crystal ball off its pedestal. He had fine, flowing sleeve, trimmed with gold, and a little dust. He smiled, said again, "Sit, O great knight."

Link wrinkled his nose and backed away. He was trying to fool him, trick him with sweet words. It would not work. He was a fraud and a liar, and Link would not be tricked. He felt the air the sage had spoken of before.

"Perhaps you could be of great use to the city—if you know all of what you see, then you need only look at a victim of the Waste to know—"

He gave a third uneasy little titter and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Link had him worried now. A little bead of sweat appeared on his forehead, followed by another. Link felt a small, creeping triumph brewing, "Tell me—have you seen a dark haired girl, about seventeen or so, dark eyed?" he leaned forward again, a bit too far forward, perhaps. His right hand come to rest flat in the center of the table, his left just behind it, fingertips only, as if the Doctor was prey he had cornered. "Creda was her name, a girl from the palace?"

Link felt a draft. He turned, saw the room reflected back at him, saw himself for a moment, hanging where the tapestry used to be. He glanced down. It was on the floor. A mirror. As long as a man was tall, as wide as his arm was long, from shoulder to wrist, made of perfectly smooth glass, like the surface of a lake, it looked like it would ripple and distort if his placed a finger on it. It was backed with buffed and polished silver. _Pure_ silver. Link had never seen a mirror quite like that before. He had seen basic things, polished bronze discs that were handed form servant girl to servant girl for a few minutes of admiration and grooming—nothing like this. It was in a finely carved wooden frame, the edge was decorated with little bits of obsidian in calculated and precise grooves. Clearly the glass work was the work of Goron craftsmen. Link had never seen glass so smooth before.

He had never really seen his own refection before either. He had seen it a few times, vague and scarey there in a window or a pool. He knew a few things, the color of his hair, that he was not too tall, and that his eyes were blue.

_Break it!_

Link was taken aback—the Prince of Arcadia rubbed him the wrong way—rude thoughts about him could be expected. This mirror had done him no trespass. It was a work of incredible craftsmanship. It was inanimate, inert, devoid of agency.

_Shatter it into a million pieces! _These thoughts of violence and contempt he had been having recently, they were unlike him. When had they started? Just last night? Perhaps—perhaps the injury to his head was responsible for it?

Link looked back to the man and forced himself to attend to the matter at hand, "Creda, sir."

_Break it! _Link was positive the voice was not coming from his own imagination. At this point, it was quite real. Ringing in his ears, it had gone from a quiet hiss to a loud shriek of unmatched pain. _Break it! Break it! Break it!_

Link started to turn his head.

"No! Don't look to the mirror just yet, lad. We've not reached that point."

Link looked at the mirror. The reflection of the room was contorting, pulling inwards until it split open and a little black maw opened up, gradually spreading wider, aligning with the center of his back. Link actually _felt it there. _Link gasped and reached for his sword, then he felt the splitting pain grow, cutting from his belly to his chest, it stopped his breath short in his lungs. The voice became pleading, _Hylia's Grace, break the mirror, please!_

Link took out his sword and drove the pommel into the center of the glass. It cracked, shattered, pieces of glass flying into his face and spilling over his boots. He had hit it harder than he meant too, the pommel punched through the soft silver, and the wood behind it. The pain stopped, but the ever present scream;_ Break it. Break it. Break it, c_ontinued. Link grabbed the sword with two hands, on hand on the hilt, the other on the strip of leather to seal the rain out, and bashed the mirror in repeatedly, leaving small holes in the metal, and gaping ones in the wood. When every piece of glass was knocked from the beautiful, evil frame, he began to hack away at the wood, splitting it apart.

Something shoved him, knocked him away, pushing the air from his lungs. He was thrown against the edge of the tent. It ripped a little with the impact, the rest of the blow snapped one beam and caused the structure to collapse. Link kept going, bringing it all down on a few bales of straw. He heard Cucoos clucking and screaming in terror, fluttering against their cages.

Blindly, recklessly, he slashed through the ten and got to his feet.

"_There!" _Link's eyes honed in on a bump in the wreckage that must have been the wizard. "_Grab him!"_ He lunged for it, but something grabbed the back of his tunic and threw him back. He narrowly avoided falling on his own sword a second time. He got up and put it away—if he could not see his opponent, it was a liability. He took out his bow and an arrow. Merchants and shoppers shrieked and dove for cover as Link pointed it at the Wizard.

He aimed to kill.

Before the bump could move, Link drew the string back, pushing the curve of the bow forward for that last bit of power, then he loosed the arrow. The bump in the fabric vanished the second it was punctured, like a bubble. There was nothing there.

"_Watch out!"_

Link turned. Plastered against the sunniest wall of the Bazaar was a shadow. It may have been—Link was certain of it, yes—the one that killed the King. It was much larger now. _"Lighting conditions. The longer the shadows, the stronger She'll be."_

_"_She'll...?"

Link barely had time to ask, simply acknowledge that she shadow did look rather feminine in figure. The shadow's head turned, tangled hair flying about like she was suspended in water. She turned, saw a few city watchmen, and sent them flying, simply by flicking their shadows away dismissively. Link ducked, heard the Cucoos shrieking again, the sound of metal cages breaking. He jumped over the Gerudo merchant's table, cutting through to the sizzling pan of frying onion. He doused the head of the arrow in olive oil and lit it with the cooking fire, aiming it at the shadow's center. Perhaps fire, light, would disperse or stun it.

_"__No!" _The voice screamed, "_No don't!_"

With out warning, his hand moved on its own, the moment he let the burning arrow fly, so that it lost its path, and instead of hitting the shadow dead center, it hit her left hand. She drew back, physically hurt by the flame, then vanished, disappearing into the dark side of the Bazaar.

Some one—some thing, actually, grabbed his wrist again and jerked him out into the light. Link could hardly believe his eyes when he realized what it was. A shadow, _his_ shadow. From the darkness before him a voice shrieked, punctuated by only a pair of furiously glowing red eyes in the dirt, "_Do you have any idea what would have happened to Creda if we had killed her shadow!?"_

* * *

><p>I can't stop world building help.<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

The Game of Shadows

(Disclaimed)

Does anyone else suffer from the five chapter curse? Or anything like it?

I am ultimately always extremely dissatisfied with every fifth chapter.

The five chapter curse will strike again at chapter ten, and again at chapter fifteen.

It is only the fifth chapters.

I don't even want to edit it.

* * *

><p>Chapter five:<p>

"She will not... _lose_ that hand, will she?"

_No. _The red eyed shadow—_his_ red eyed shadow assured him. _No, only if you had struck her in the chest. She will..._ his tone became careful, guarded,_ recover._

"But what has he done to her?"

His shadow clearly knew, but he did not answer. In the dirt, the the red eyes drifted. There were no pupils to indicate his focus, they eyes themselves moved, slid to the direction of the abandoned tent. _Loot it._

"No!" Link was offended at the very idea, "Tis thievery."

_Yes. _his shadow replied_. You have bested him in combat. Claim what is yours!_

Link would hardly call a little kerfuffle like that 'combat' but his shadow had a point. He pulled the tent back up by one of the ropes and support beams. The fabric was too precious a thing to cut so brazenly, not when he could spare it. People were watching him, muttering to their companions, bonding with complete strangers, over a mutual curiosity about this new stranger in green. Link felt a little embarrassment for what he had done, not much, though. He would never feel bad for a natural reaction. He rummaged though the mess. There were dried plants everywhere, broken jars, a soup of brine and dried innards on the straw mats, which had prevented the slow moving sludge from reaching the hard earth, but they were not particularly absorbent.

He found a plain leather wallet with about five hundred rupees inside, which he tied to his belt, and a locked cash box made of tin, then he found the key not much later, when he was folding up that pretty length of silk. It had been hidden in a hollowed-out knot in the poorly made table. Link grabbed the key, and got a splinter, too. The table had never once been sanded, varnished or lacquered. It showed in the silk, upon closer inspection. Link did not know what he would do with it. It was only two yards on either side, and made with very few threads, not suitable for a blanket or curtain, and it had holes and snags from the rough surface of the table. The vellum book was gone, the ones that remained had nothing of immediate value. Link could not read them. They were written in a loopy language that was not Hylian. He could guess what they were using only the illustrations. Various forms of divination, a book of parlor tricks, a compendium of common minerals that could be mixed for spectacular displays to beguile and befuddle the skeptical and gullible alike, a book of herbs.

What would he do with all of this? Leave it?

_No. _his shadow replied. Link glanced to him, splayed out over the broken glass on the floor. The slash in the tent fluttered in the breeze and sunlight glinted off the pieces of silver. C_ripple him. Destroy his resources. Burn it._

"I dare not start a fire in the Bazaar."

_Take it out of town._

But the books were to valuable a thing to burn. They had taken some scribe hours of hard work, or they could even be original manuscripts. Link was holding someone's life's work in his hands, either way. The cabinets and boxes could all be sold—not for much, but for a few rupees, at least, and _clearly_ some crazy fool would pay for the contents for the jars. But the books were another matter. If he sold them, they might be burned for kindling in the winter, and those hours of work would be wasted. Link had no use for trickery or slight of hand, and no use for divination, either. Any question he had of his future would eventually be answered, and he would dread the greatest unknown even more if he knew how it would find him. He would rather be hopeful and ignorant than know a disappointing future.

_Do not be dumb. Of course you would. You would jump at the chance to know the future._

Perhaps his shadow was right. Either way, the books were valuable. They could be sold to collectors, or stored in libraries for future generations. Even if the vellum book had been abandoned with everything else, he would have been unable to read it. There were a few scribbled notes here and there. It was all to small to make heads or tails of. The only person he could think would know anything about it was Princess Zelda, what ever it was, some strange tongue, or very old Hylian. She had received a great deal more schooling than he ever would. He set the books down on the table again, on top of the silk. The only thing it was good for would be to make a sling to carry everything in.

As he tied the opposite corners together, he heard his shadow say, _Under the table._

Link looked. There was a small trunk with a brass latch there. He knelt down and picked it up. It was light, and fit easily into two hands. It was smaller than the books, made of hard leather straps and stained balsa wood, trying to imitate cedar. It fit easily two hands, the size of a jewelry box. Perhaps it was another cash box? Link felt a rush of curiosity. Perhaps he had stumbled upon the expensive, mysterious glove cleaner, or some copy of his plans, clearly laid out.

_He is not that foolhardy._

"Will you merely let me hope?" Link asked as he flicked the latch open.

He was jerked off his feet as the straw mat he had been standing on few into the box, shrinking before his eyes. The coarse ropes whipped around him, one slapped his cheek, leaving an bright, quickly swelling welt, and the metal stakes that held them zipped towards the box, one narrowly missing his ear. The wallet was ripped from his belt. He covered his face with his arms as he landed on his side, swearing and curling up under his shield. Everything was gone in one quick rush of motion.

_"__BY ALL THAT IS DAMNED AND UNHOLY; MAGIC IS A PLAGUE!"_ His shadow screamed. It left a ringing in his ear, and he was positive the entire bazaar to heard it. Broken glass and silver flew by. Link covered his face with his arms. The gauntlets protected him. He heard paper fluttering, someone shouting to warn others to get down. Link turned on his back and looked up to see, just in the nick of time, the vellum book, followed by a few loose papers, fly over his head and vanish inside the magician's box. The box snapped shut and fell to the ground with a soft little _clunk _as he picked himself up in the unrelenting, gawking gaze of the Bazaar. If he had been fated for a life of quite anonymity before, it was well beyond his reach now. He glanced around, said nothing. There was not much _too_ say.

His shadow continued to carry on—and Link had to admit, he was very shaken by it. He had no hard time disagreeing with that sentiment. He dusted himself off, knelt down and picked the box up. He gave it a little shake, close to his ear. It still felt empty, sounded empty, but it felt much heavier than before. Not like the entire tent was inside, just a small brick. Link took a few steps back, faced the box away from him, flipped the latch again. As quickly as the tent had vanished, it reappeared, bursting out of the little crate with a sudden _pop!_ And a whoosh of air. Setting itself up, pitching itself. Link looked inside. The damage remained.

He opened the box again, and the tent vanished once more. It was not nearly as violent when he was not standing in the center of it. It went quite smoothly. It all jumped into the box with enough force to send Link back a half-step. That was it. His shadow was laughing, _Nayru's Love what a moron!_

"How will I explain this to Zelda?" Link put his free hand on his hip and tilted his head, "How do I explain you?"

_I will only explain it once—I will not depend on you to explain it to her. She will understand it much better than you, and you would surely get it wrong."_

"Fine, fine." Link replied, "So you explain it once. All that matters, then is that we get this box, the book and charts, to Zelda, yes?"

_No, no. You will do no such thing. We don't need Zelda to tell us his plan. I know his plan._

"What, then? Explain it."

_Cease speaking out loud you look like a fool. I can read your mind just as easily as I can speak to it._

Link scowled at him. He still wanted him to explain, and explain the shadow did, _He needs a mirror to perform his dark spell. The bigger the mirror, the more powerful, and so, for now, at least, Castle Town is safe from his arts. In time, however, he will have access to the largest mirrors in the region."_

"What mirrors?"

_Lake Hylia and the moon. _Link glanced up. His shadow continued speaking, _The perfect time is nearer than I would like to confess. One month and a fortnight. The moon will come to stand just above Lake Hylia, as close as it will ever be for another thousand years. And yes, as you have guessed—it shall be full._

It would be, or at best, very close to it.

_When this happens, if he is allowed to cast his spell, all of Hyrule, the Gerudo's Desert, The northern part of Moria, and the western half of Catalia, and a small fraction of Holodrum will fall victim and become a formidable, coordinated force. He has perfected his process with Creda. We were the last mistake he will ever make._

But why keep this from Zelda?

_The conflicts Hyrule has seen in the past, at their root, have been because of the Triforce, or some ancient, buried evil. Something she could direct her anger towards. Her grief has never been caused by a mortal man before. Now—her father has just been buried and you plan on telling her that her kingdom might be lost for simple geography and nothing more? A game being played at her expense miles away?_

His shadow had a point. Link shifted the box in his hands, moving the weight from one palm to the next, wondering. Why was he doing this?

_Two reasons—the first is that the Prince of Arcadia made a deal with him. He paid him handsomely to test his latest super-soldier (that would be Creda) to murder the king and put just a hair more pressure on Zelda, who has already been compromised, but not lost completely, by a love potion. She needs that extra push, Lilyfingers needs that army, and in it escaped you, Operimen needs to live the high life. While our corner of the planet will be cast into shadow and torn apart, the land surrounding it will be left untouched—and cowering in away from a fearsome, near immortal army. The man that holds this Kingdom of Shadows will be the most powerful man in the world. Our noble Lilyfingers assumed it would be him—because he planned on having Zelda, who owns that land, bearing his last name and locked up in an Arcadian tower. But she's a bit to smart for that. She knows a spell when one's been put on her. So, now that his hold has crumbled, Lilyfingers is running thin on money and depending on his good graces with the man casting the spell, Operimen. You can tell; it shall not end well for him._

"He plans to double cross him?"

Y_es, and if you had simply waited for the Prince of Arcadia to exit the palace and head to the wizard's tent, you could have learned most of this with out my help._

And how did he learn that?

_I touch a shadow, I get information. Shadows do not lie._

What could they do now?

_Return to Zelda. Hide the Wizard's plan from her, but some where, there must be an remedy for his love potion, and she will need a clear head for the trails in store. It is the best place for us._

Link held the box of stolen goods— _Justly won._ his shadow insisted—in one had and retreated away from the clutter of the Bazaar. He wanted to get out of sight as quickly as possible, and clearly they wanted him to leave. None of the merchants tried to hawk their wares, and the shoppers parted for him. They did not dare to meet his eyes. The only people who seemed unaware of anything that had happened were the fishmonger and the baker girl, who where still trying to out-advertise the other. If even just two people were not looking at him, he was content with his lot.

When he passed the temple of Farore, saw the children rush out of the gate, heading out for an hour of shenanigans, perhaps lunches at home, before their lessons continued. The flood of them stopped him, briefly, and he heard one acolyte say to a passerby over the garden fence, "Prince Facade's herald really said that?"

"Yes. Really."

"War with Arcadia. How will that go, I wonder?"

Link stopped to listen.

"He is posturing, pouting. The Prince ca not declare war—I highly doubt the king will follow through with that threat."

"Still—Arcadia is very powerful, how strangely rash of Princess Zelda, to incite such ire."

Link leaned back against a wall. A blonde woman, with a basket filled with sacks full of flour and spices nestled between cheeses wrapped in beeswax-coated cloth walked past him, heard the gossip and stopped, butting into their conversation, "What of Arcadia? Who cares about Arcadia? Did you hear of the crazy lad attacked a man in the bazaar? It was quite the scene."

"No!" the acolyte exclaimed.

"Yes!" said the other man, "From a fleeing guardsman. I heard the opponent was an invisible giant specter."

"No, no it was a woman's shadow!"

"A woman's shadow? Really? No—no that can not be right. That sounds far too symbolic to be the truth."

"He was raving mad, dressed in green, and suffering from the delusion that he was the Goddess' Chosen One! I swear it's true, friend. I saw it with my own eyes!"

"Farore shield us!"

_Hylia's BLOOD! _His shadow grumbled, Link glanced back down to him. He looked to be slouched, head forward, clearly grumpy. It was odd. Link's arms were by his sides, thumb hooked into his belt, and a box in his hand, but his shadow appeared to have his arms crossed. He wondered if anyone saw the difference. No one seemed to. People had gone back to not noticing him. Zelda must have put a spell on his tunic to make him near invisible when he was not making a scene—and its effect must have come back. No one asked him if _he_ was the raving, green-clad lunatic in question.

But he had certainly _not_ raved.

"Now, now." the sage interrupted the three, making a slow, deliberate path to them. "I highly doubt he was mad. I spoke to a very polite young fellow in a green tunic just this morning."

Link shut them out. His ears fixed on a distant sound. A chattering throng. He quickened his pace—and he saw the cause when he reached the main, wide road that lead from the square at the edge of town to the gates of the castle. There was a crowed gathered there, people listening from windows and rooftops. As the day had worn on and no clear answer to the burning question of Zelda's engagement had emerged, and with Facade's empty declaration of war, the people had grown antsy. They were wondering why the King himself had not appeared to address them. They were peaceful, for the time being.

They were far from a roaring crowd. Link slipped through as politely as he could, muttering a few pardons as he did. No one seemed to notice him. They were chattering among themselves, occasionally glancing up at the top of the wall and saying things like, "His Highness will appear soon. He must. Our merry king simply consumed too much wine and is suffering its effects. He will arise soon, and we will know."

But still others muttered, "Why has only Facade emerged? Why is no one leaving the walls?"

"Perhaps a choice has not been made yet?"

"A choice must have been made."

"Yes—yes a choice must have been made."

Link went to the gates, and spoke to the infantryman stationed behind it. He stated his business and quietly as possible and was allowed entry. He headed for Zelda's tower—though at this time, it was more likely that she was in the noble's church while well wishers and sages said words of comfort and praise before her father was carried down to the crypt. It was not his place to attend the funeral of a king.

_Yes, but you should go anyway._

No. It was not his place.

_She needs you there! _His shadow urged him. Link found Zelda's tower was deserted. He considered it—he could at least check in on the funeral service, see how much longer there was to go. He was no noble—he could never set foot in the central chapel, but he could loiter around the door to pay his respects, and he would have done that.

Except, when he opened the doors, he heard faint screaming.

No one else seemed to hear it. Every guard stood at their posts, unfazed by the consistent noise. Link turned, trying to find which way it was coming from. He thought, at first, that loud screaming was something nobles did at funerals, but the cathedral where the king laid in repose was in the middle of the castle, and this came from the right, far, far to the right.

_No—No I do not want to go!_ His shadow protested, and Link felt him pulling him back, but he raced down the hallways, looking for the source of the sound. It sounded... It sounded like it was coming from the ballroom. Was something happening? What this some new step, some new part of Operimen's curse? Link ran, following the noise to the ballroom. It got louder and louder, gradually, and his shadow grew more and more against pursuing it further.

But Link was determined to see it, what ever it was, with his own eyes. It was _happening to Creda. _It was happening to others—people he had never met. Children. He threw open the ballroom door. The sound was deafening. Unbearable. Link had to cover his ears, grit his teeth until the screams were blended with ringing. He nearly lost his footing. He had to close his eyes.

But the room was still. No one was screaming. The sages and attendants shuffled about, Operimen's victims were laying quietly in their cots. No one new had been brought in, but no one had recovered. On the far side of the room, someone was weeping bitterly, softly, thrown over a loved one. Link assumed they were no longer among the living.

It should have been as quiet as the night, aside from the mourners in the far corner, and they were not screaming. Perhaps the occasional wail of mourning, but Link hardly heard it for the hundreds of voices crying out in pure agony. He glanced around. No one was screaming. No one was screaming—and yet it was so _loud _Who was screaming?

Link barely heard his shadow answer, _All of them._

* * *

><p>FIVE CHAPTER CURSE AAHHHH.<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

The Game of Shadows

(Disclaimed)

I don't care if "Love potion" is cliché and stupid.

I had fun thinking of inappropriate appositives.

* * *

><p>Chapter six:<p>

As the High Sage droned on, Zelda fiddled with her prayer beads, mourned her father, wished Impa would return, wondered what Link was up to, hoped no one was looking at her, and wished the old coot would stop talking so she did not have to bother sitting in stony reverence like a good, proper royal heir and spend a few hours balling her eyes out. It was very hard to sit there and _not _cry when cry was the very thing she wished to do. No one else was crying. It was infuriating. Zelda had seen funerals before, the servants lost dear friends had family very frequently. No one expected them not to cry. Their funerals were loud affairs. Everyone cried. Complete strangers were hired simply to raise their faces skyward and wail, to set the mood like a band and minstrel. To hold back tears at a funeral was considered heartless, cold and disrespectful.

Unless you were nobility. Then, it was _dignified._

What was Link up to?

When would Impa return?

Zelda glanced around the room, peeking at them all in their places, quiet and reserved, heads bowed, no one said a word to anyone else. Who was the Wizard's accomplice?

It would be impossible to tell. No one was showing any sign of feeling at all. If only they _could,_ the villain would be so easy to spot. She would have to look for the dry, scheming eyes. Zelda looked back down at the crumpled loop of beads in her lap, raised a finger to wipe her eyes, and dabbed at her nose with a kerchief. She wanted to disregard regal decorum and simply blow her nose, as big as a disturbance as it may be, but such a display in front of so many dignitaries..? Inconceivable! She glanced around again. They all looked so grossly unmoved by the sight of her father's body, grown pale and stiff with death, and not one looked more grossly unmoved than any of the others. Which one? Which one was the Wizard's accomplice?

How could she work to identify them? Her sorrow and mourning would come naturally. It did not need to be the forefront of her thoughts. To find the second culprit was paramount. There was no way to tell through dark or maliciousness of dress. They had all been merry-dressed folk before, and now (though they were clad in white) they still looked like merry-dressed folk. Such a thing as jolly garb would be simple to fake. A history of deceit? No—deceit was part and parcel to a life in court, and with such a standard, she could eliminate only five or six, and that would leave too many distant and close family members in her pool of potential perpetrators, and she could never suspect her own kin—accuse was out of the question.

However, that brought up another question: Could it be someone _already_ in line for the throne? Zelda thought of it. Her father had a brother, who had passed, his widow's eldest child, Gertrude, her cousin, was a flighty thing with a kingdom of her own to inherit, which she had no interest in. Perhaps her Aunt, hoping to tuck two kingdoms in her sleeve?

Her Aunt who did not even try to hide her disdain for magic? Who had raised her from the cradle after her mother's passing? A likely suspect!

Her younger son? Gable? No. No it was impossible. He would never do such a thing.

What was Link doing?

Where was Impa?

She did not want to think about such things. She wanted to mourn her father in peace, she wanted to sit down and focus on nothing more than that—but it came too easy for her. It was too simple a task, and she would let her mind relax, which let it wander. And it would wander to the Prince of Arcadia.

And then she would feel a strange mix of lust, nausea and rage.

Her body lurched a little bit, her stomach jumped up into her throat, threatening to push her light breakfast back up. She fought it back, raised a hand to her lips, then held it daintily against her chest and hoped no one noticed it. No one seemed too. They were still, quiet, refined. She hoped he was far, far away. She hoped he went as far as he could, much further than Arcadia. Curse him, and all he had done to her!

The accursed brew he had slipped her! It was no meager love potion. It had torn her mind to shreds, shattered it like a window, and her thoughts threatened to fly out the moment they were born. Her concentration had been killed completely. She had to force her mind to comply, else it would drift and settle like a blissful butterfly upon the Prince of Arcadia, swoon over his repugnant personality, fawn over his distasteful face, and send her heart beating like a brass drum, echoing his name.

Oh, there it goes again.

She forced herself to swallow a hint of bile with as much dignity and class as she could. She elegantly dabbed at her eyes and nose, and surrendered to breathing through her mouth, as common as it was. She could not force air to pass through her nose anymore.

The chapel was drafty, lit by dungeon-like windows close to the arching ceiling that let as much sunlight in as they could, bless them, but not much. The light was supplemented by rows and rows of candle, on tall sticks and candelabras, arranged on the back wall. Directly above them was the throne room, in the center of the ground floor of the palace. This Chapel was a basement, leading directly to the crypt below. From above, when the High Sage reached a slight pause, Zelda heard someone running.

And the high sage continued his long, chant, leaned back (such a limber spine for an old man!). Zelda fidgeted uncontrollably. If only Impa would return. Where was she? Had the pigeon broken its wing? Had it been shot down? Had her horse broken its leg? Had she been killed?

Where was she?

Zelda forced herself to be still and calm. She was the Goddess reborn. She was the Princess of Hyrule. She was the paragon of control. The living embodiment of perfection. The beginnings of a fair and just queen. She would be a shining beacon to her people.

She was going to rip Facade's head off.

That dreamy stallion.

She was not truly sad. She had done her denial last night. She had done her sobbing last night. Today was a day of anger, white-hot in her chest. Her father, the good, god-fearing and merry man that had made her laugh, took the time to pat her on the shoulder and tell her that she may be the heir to the throne, she may be an example, but behind the closed doors of her private chambers, when they were dining alone in her tower, speaking privately in his study, that it was okay to be sad, and feel anger and fear and pain. 'A crown is no ward against humanity' he told her time and time again. Such a terrible and awesome spell did not exist. Not even the Triforce could take that away.

'And would you want it too, child?' she could hear him in her head, in that impossibly booming voice, 'Perhaps you don't like being angry, and you don't like being sad—but would you chose to throw away joy and love, too, so you do not have to feel them? Are you so angry that it eclipses your love for your father?'

And no. She never was.

Quietly, with bearing and grace, she pinched her nose, pressed downwards, resented the dominance of courtly silence and tried to massage the mucus downwards to give herself some relief. A princess could not be seen breathing through her mouth, or sniveling in a time of crisis.

She heard running again.

How she wished Impa were around.

How she wished Link would return.

How she wished the High Sage would end his babbling.

How she wished to see Facade, that glorious love-god, impaled on a spear and put on display in the center of their capital. At least, then, the scavengers and carrion beasts behind the walls of Byzent would not starve.

Silk was hardly an absorbent fabric.

When would this ceremony _end?_

"O, wise and merciful Nayru, of the bountiful ocean, may you descend upon us, in this, our darkest hour, and extend your heart and your guidance to each soul here, so that as you escort this most beloved and holy of monarchs, this esteemed and respected father, brother, and son, into the heart of the sacred realm, the embrace of your sisters, to live in peace and enlightenment from this moment, until the end of time, he pave the way for us, left abandoned, bereaved, and still tainted with sin, so that his passing, which came far too soon, though it was written long before his birth, by your hand, will make the inevitable and cruel passing of his sister, his nephews and nieces and single, forlorn daughter..."

Hours later. The answer was hours later.

"...easier for their souls to bear."

Zelda blocked it out again, drew the beads trough her closed fingers, and tried to think of some kind of treatment for herself. She had swallowed it, so...

The radiance of his smile was such a wonder to behold!

_She had swallowed, it therefore..._

And the glimmer of his eyes in the sunlight was divine!

_She had swallowed it, and so perhaps__**...**_

How quickly could he be summoned back?

_She had swallowed it, and so it stood to reason..._

And, to whom ever it could possibly concern, the size of his footprints—_A vile a crafty wizard it was who made that brew!_ Zelda's hand clenched tight around Nayru's medallion. Had he made it so the victim could not _think_ of a remedy? What kind of man could posses such knowledge? And how could he allow himself to abuse it so easily!

Zelda placed a hand on her chest to try to quell the pounding. She grew fearful. She grew angry. The comfort of a cure seemed well beyond her reach. She needed Impa. She needed someone she could trust that was knowledgeable about magic. She needed to know what combination of herbs had been used, what spell had been whispered to the quartz and gold in the water as it boiled, though she began to suspect that it went beyond simple herbs and words.

There was a faint muttering, "So it goes."

"O vibrant and fierce Din, of the fire of industriousness, may you decent upon us, in this, our stagnation of sorrow, and bring memories of fire and joy to these mourning hearts, so that this cherished life will not be missed, so that his passing to your sisters will not be thought of as a curse to his survivors, but as a blessing to his immortal soul, and let these memories chase the hand of death from amungst us, let us live a life unburdened and blissful, free from death's shadow, if only for an hour when the sun is at his highest, if only for the nights when our dreams are sweetest, and the company is purest, to ensure that the cycle of life will repeat now, as it always has, and so that the foundation of society will continue to thrive with the family at its core..."

Could it be... _Blood magic?_

There her breakfast tried to go again.

It could not be blood magic. It had been outlawed in Hyrule many years ago, when it was learned that a particular 'curse', indeed most curses that rendered the body weak with sickness, was not magic but a disease borne by the blood itself, and the terrible toll the magic eventually took upon the practitioners. It was beyond vulgar, beyond taboo! It was a known hazard to both caster and victim. Carion's plagues had become a memory of a memory. They had not even faded into myth or legend. They were but a whisper, forgotten by Hyrule for good reason.

But apparently it would rise again, regardless. Zelda did not know the rules for blood magic in Arcadia. She had assumed the country had experienced something similar, and had similarly outlawed it. Perhaps she was wrong? Did they know very little, or was it a common practice? Was it merely an amusement for the upper class? Had Facade concocted the brew himself? Had he done such a thing many times before?

Zelda felt an incredibly powerful wave of jealousy for what ever petty, pining harlots he had stowed away. He belonged to _her _and—how was she going to explain this mess to Impa?

"So it goes."

"O honorable and fair Farore, of the fertile woods, now that great destiny has played out, do not let them, and all that will transpire after wards, illustrious and glorious, be erased from memory, do not let our history fall prey to the sands of time, and forsake the generations to come, let us all not forget, remind us every day, that we must teach our progeny, not through thought, not through words, but through our actions, and remind us every day, that we can always better ourselves, for it may be true that you and your sisters will take our wretched souls, hives of vice, and take us to the sacred realm, regardless of our transgressions, but we know the pride you will feel when we take it upon our selves to purify our souls, and take charge of our own destiny and salvation."

What if she was unable too?

What if that was yet another part of the curse? Not only did it leave her mind in shambles, but it silenced her tongue when she dared to share the evil that had been slipped into her wine? Would she eventually be run so ragged by it that she would forget she had ever been ensnared? She had though, at first, that its effect would wane with time, say, the span of a quick engagement and wedding, to wear off when she had been spirited away to Arcadia, or bearing an heir.

But if it was _blood magic_, it would only get _worse. _The potion, what ever it had been, bad been nothing more than a vector. The spell would get more powerful over time and the magic, bonded to blood, would seek hers out and intensify. Her heart pounded again. Her hands began to quake. Such fear. She was afraid. She had felt no stronger fear before, not when her mother passed (for she had been quite young and hardly knew what death meant) not when her father's life slipped away before her very eyes. Now—now both of her parents were gone. The people meant to protect her, to guard her from foolish choices, were gone. Impa was gone. She could speak to no one of these troubles. Link had the Waste to concern himself with. Edvard had... So many things on his plate. She would trust her Cavaliers with her life, but never with a secret such as this.

"So it goes."

Zelda's voice quaked as she murmured with the rest of the congregation, a dull murmur of adulation, "Din, burn my sins away. Nayru wash my soul clean. Farore guard me from future trespass."

"So it goes." the High Sage said, then bowed his head for a brief moment, before singing with the choir the song of the Hero. Zelda was positive it would never end. Some sang along quietly, some rocked back and forth, tapping the beat on their chests, a look of peaceful reverence on their faces.

It did eventually end, and six knights, selected ahead of time, bore the king's body, guided by the high sage and accompanied by Zelda, into the crypt, where they enclosed him in a stone casket, where he would be left for all of time. The crypt was sealed, locked, and Zelda was soon left standing alone in an empty cathedral. She did not know what to do. Custom dictated she should go to the audience chamber, where the celebration of life carried on. She could already hear the bittersweet music and a few raised voices.

But she wanted to sit quietly outside the crypt door and blow her nose.

She blew her nose, cursed silk for being so nonabsorbent, and folded it so the slimy mess was contained. She knew better than to give it to Edvard. He would burn it, he was quite wasteful for a steward, and silk was too precious a material. She tucked it away in her sleeve, prayed that it would remain there. She rested her head against the heavy stone door, carved with the figure of Nayru, her mark etched onto her chest, surrounded by rays, as if it were shining. She was very tall, larger than life-size.

There was a pause from up stairs, a little murmur. Zelda stopped and listened. After a brief interlude of silence, she heard two sets of feet outside, but only one fellow entered. A young man, dressed in white, the robe trimmed with black and gray wolf's fur, concealing small plates of mail, to guard his heart and shoulders, a necklace of silver and amethyst spread across his shoulders, deep purple embroidery cluttered about to torso, the shape tapering down and ending at a point at his waist, working to build up the illusion of broad shoulders, because for all his daring and cunning fire, her cousin, Prince of Moria, lacked a hero's build.

"Zelda."

It was striking how alike the two were in both height and build. Just as Zelda was of a waifish figure, so was he thin-limbed and slim with soft, feminine hands, though his mother's complexion had made him slightly darker and the heavier sun of Moria had made his hair lighter. If he had spent as much time indoors as she, perhaps his skin would be paler, his hair darker. The pair were of similar age, he was a year her senior, but he had sprouted early for a lad, grown up with a breezy, silken tenor, more adept to witty speeches than screaming orders in chaos. Someone who saw them in passing would assume they were twins.

"Gable."

"My deepest condolences, cousin." he spared her a light touch to her shoulder, then sat beside her before the door to the crypt, "I've sent word to my mother and sister. They will arrive as soon as they are able. I am relieved that I was here."

"She will pressure me to wed Sir Charles."

"Sir Charles is a good and noble knight, who—"

"—watched us play as infants in the gardens of Gaerwyn."

"When he was a page."

"That is a full seven years."

"But he is the youngest of the four."

"Gable!"

"Cousin, if you don't wed she'll try to make me regent! I don't want that. I've never wanted that. I've foiled assassination attempts _just_ to avoid being king."

Poor lad, she knew it was true. She laughed. He gave her a little nudge with his elbow, "Now that I have you smiling, I must confess, I have another motive. Edvard has hired a roving band of players, the most popular in the land. He knows that it is customary to perform the Tale of the Archer and the Maid. He refuses to allow them to start until you arrive."

"Edvard does _not_ command me."

"What is troubling you?"

"Perhaps my father's demise? Perhaps the Waste?" Zelda sighed. If she was going to find out if she could speak of the spell, now was the time to try, though Gable did not know much about magic—except that his mother disliked it. It was heavily policed in Moria, all practitioners had to be licensed, approved and reviewed every year by the county. Like Hyrule, blood magic was illegal, punishable by death. Even if he knew, he would be of no aide in curing her. What would he do with such information? Her cousin was thin, the physique of a scholar—that did not mean he _was_ one. He was warlike and rash, capable of wit only if it was a rallying cry to battle. If he heard of it, he would go to Sir Charles and share the news, and they would _both _return to Moria braying for war—or at the very least, the unconditional surrender of Facade, so that he may be properly disposed of.

And only _she_ could be allowed to dispose of him. That God-Like Villain.

Gable leaned away, rubbed a chin with a deep longing for a beard, in thought, but he gave up, pleaded with her, "Come above. Listen to the players. Even the Court Jester believes it will be good for you. He has given me a solemn oath—no more perverted acts, no more vulgar humor."

"He merely wishes to protect his job."

"As everyone does." Gable informed her wisely. He stood, stooped down and offered her his hand. He was right. Zelda got to her feet, and together the walked out, hand in hand. Zelda had to keep her elbow fashionably bent to keep her handkerchief in its place. Gable, with no degree of subtlety, passed her hand to the arm of Sir Charles, who had waited outside the door. A third motive. He wore white as well, a few ceremonial and superficial plates of armor. He paid his respects to the dead by wearing no sword. He did not say much. He may have muttered a condolence or salutation. Zelda did not hear.

The room fell silent and respectful as she walked in, flanked by her cousin and Sir Charles of Moria. Zelda looked to the far end of the room. Seated on the throne was an effigy of her father, common for celebrations of life, a way that the deceased may partake in the festivities and view, but not interact. Her empty throne, less grand, sat beside it, and awaiting her there were the Princes of Labrynna and Holodrum. She had had so little interaction with them, she hardly new their names. They had tried to win her hand by wooing her father, not her.

Gable was shrewd. This was calculated to remind not only them, but the rest of the court, that Moria and Hyrule were already tightly woven, and that Moria planned to make that weave tighter.

Zelda though they were tight enough already.

Perhaps Moria's Queen Mother simply wanted to take Hyrule from by her side and place it in the palm of her hand, and because she could not marry Zelda to Gable with out breaking _several _taboos, she had selected her most devoted knight for the task, to control her, probably with physical force, or at the very least, blatant coercion. Zelda glanced up at him, shuddered. She had heard rumors, whispers. She was not keen on being bedded by a fellow that had laid with her own aunt.

If only her breakfast could find a moment to sit still.

She was certainly not keen on establishing an alliance with Labrynna, Holodrum, or any country that was vain and shallow enough to establish allegiance no based on facts, needs, or benefits, but on if she gave her body to their prince. It was feeble minded. She could just as easily strangle or stab them after. Then again, it was not a simple question of alliance. It was also land. Hyrule was vast.

Zelda sat down next to her father's effigy. The two Princes fluttered about her, reaching to offer her condolences, kiss her hand, touch her arms. Charles, completely unauthorized and unwanted, took up position behind her, hands folded. Intimidation. She thought of Facade, if he was by her side, they would be no where near her. Dogs did go running when they saw a superior man.

Goddesses make her strong, how would she purge herself of this evil?

She waved them away, muttering, "Edvard!"

The Steward, somehow, managed to hear her from halfway across the chamber. He hustled towards her, with quick mincing steps. The three around her dispersed, and it was Edvard's turn to flutter about her, cradle her arm and touch her hand, "What is it, Princess, what do you nee—_Princess!"_

Zelda jumped, her heat flipped in her chest. He had found the soiled handkerchief. He stared at it, disgusted, held it daintily between two fingers, "Ugh." He threw it on the torch.

"Edvard that is not what I wanted!"

"What, then?" he removed a handkerchief from a small pouch at his hip. It was bright, pure white, linen, and tied to the corner of a second kerchief, bright blue. He untied the knot with deft, narrow fingers, handed it to her. She dabbed at her eyes and nose.

"Where is Impa?"

"Not here. Not yet."

"And Link?"

"Not returned yet."

"And Fidelis?"

Edvard turned. A servant girl in a plain white gown with fitted sleeves and a sweeping skirt came forward, carrying Fidelis in a basket lined with blue silk, freshly washed, her hair trimmed evenly, combed, braided and tied with ribbons, accented with glass beads. She placed the basket beside Zelda, between her and her father's throne, then shuffled away. Fidelis propped herself up with her paws on the edge of the basket, attempted to sniff the porcelain hand of her father's effigy. Zelda stooped over, gathered her little white dog up and set her in her lap. She leaned back, crossed her ankles, and focused her attention on the costumed players, wearing rich colors, the Hero in green, the princess in deep blue, and Ganondorf in dark red, exaggerating their features with deeply colored makeup and masks over their eyes and noses, leaving their mouths free to speak. The eager audience filled in the space, each trying to get as close as possible, leaving a wide ring around them. Edvard took his leave of her, to coordinate the distribution of sweet foods, cleverly disguised, untouched dishes from the previous feast. He was a resourceful and frugal man, despite his habit of burning soiled handkerchiefs.

Their band played in the balcony, which stretched around the perimeter of the chamber, connected to the floor above, reserved for the Minstrel and court poets. Zelda looked around. There were plenty of musicians in their company. They were silent at first, waiting for the whispers to stop, as the nobles pointed to the players, before setting a mood of calm reverence by strumming and plucking lutes and stringed instruments, until they were joined by pipes and drums. Nobles pointed and muttered to themselves. This was their history, Hyrule's History. It was tradition to tell the tale of the Archer and the Maid at the funerals of her family, because it was her personal history. The tale of her ancestors. If it had not been for them, she would not be seated there. It had first been written as an ode to the Royal Family's primogenitor (more than one hundred generations past!) who had been named King, not by lineage, but by right of the sword, after he helped gather the Sages and lock Ganon away during the Sealing War, when they were strong enough, forty years after Link the Defeated's... Well, _defeat_. A new Hero had yet to rise, no one knew why, and the world needed an appropriately aged impostor. The original scroll was kept behind glass in the library. He had taken the name Daltus. The sages advised they claim to be Link and Zelda reborn, but they had refused to take the crown based on a lie.

However, constant re-telling and embellishment had warped it significantly, just like time had worn the scroll thin and tattered. Perhaps it was time she had it re-written, so that there would be a little less confusion. The watchers settled, the music stopped being three independent, repetitive cycles of music and started to coordinate and move forward, from filler to narrative device, and the narrator, with his big booming voice, spoke to the gathered assembly, while the other three actors, a woman and two men, pantomimed to his narration, "It is well known, that when Goodly Link was defeated by Ganondorf's vile hand, he and Zelda were not slain, but was kept, hidden away for forty years, out of sight of Hyrule, out of reach of each other, in two, tall impenetrable towers—"

Zelda leaned back in her chair and pressed her lips together. There was nothing she hated more than a spoiled ending. Even if everyone already knew it. A servant brought her tray on a folding table a sampling of the sweet treats that the guests were dining on, and a goblet of white wine.

Link and Zelda were indeed kept alive, but it was not with in the same castle. It was with in two separate castles. Gaerwyn, which had previously been a Southern stronghold for Hyrule, but was now a Northern one for Moria, given to them many generations ago, and Hisebaole, in the heart of the Gerudo desert, who's ownership was up for debate. Hyrule claimed it was theirs, a spoil of the Sealing War, Arcadia was after it for its rich metal, and the Gerudo themselves did not take kindly to being a square on another person's chessboard. Ganondorf would never have been so foolish as to keep them in his central keep, where they would have conspired against him, and probably would have succeeded in knocking him off. He was too keen on living to put himself in such peril.

Perhaps she would take a sip for every historical inaccuracy.

She could hardly blame the players for their want to appeal to the masses. No one really _wanted_ to think of the horrible torment they must have endured when they were apart. To this day, Zelda did not like the highest room in the south western tower of Gaerwyn, which was rumored to be the very room her predecessor had been kept. Even looking at it sent shivers up her spine.

She shivered with the thought. One of the Princes, probably Holodrum, really, she had no idea, rushed to her, asking, "Are you ill, Princess?"

"Oh, begone!" she waved him away and took a deep swig of her goblet. He slipped away quietly. The play had really started to kick off now. Apparently, Ganondorf had allowed the lovers a brief interlude, so they might discuss the futility of their lives.

Zelda took another swig—Ganondorf would never allow them within each other's presence. Or unbound.

"As long as we live..."

"As long as we live, my love? You call this life?"

"Well, if you will excuse me, Princess, I shall take my permanent leave of you."

Zelda took another sip—Link and Zelda had been very much alive when they were rescued by the Archer and the Maid—and they had been rescued. Still, _this_ version of the story had Link throwing himself from the tower while Zelda begged him not to. Link would never do such a thing to her. She took a second sip—this one to help her cope with the offense. The actress playing Zelda froze, pretending to reach out a window, while Ganondorf froze in an angry stride towards her, his intention unaddressed, but quite clear. The narrator, robed in white, sprang back into action, and it was a swift return to the carefully choreographed pantomime.

"And now—" He spoke, "Our scene transitions, twenty miles and twenty days we travel, to the little village on the edge of the Lost Woods, where, look—our Fair Maid stands with her family, over the cradle of her young brother, freshly welcomed into the world. But alas, goodly Link is young still, and Ganondorf's knowledge is vast, and he will quickly find him, steal him from his homestead, and make his coffin from his crib."

Should she take a sip for geographical inaccuracies, or just let that slide for the sake of narrative flow?

She glanced at her father's effigy, felt a terrible pang of loneliness, despite Fidelis' warmth on her lap. She took another sip of wine. She might as well.

* * *

><p>I'm sorry. I had too cut the story. It was going to end on a much better line. Maybe it will be like that movie in The Simpsons, you'll see bits and pieces of out of order and have to piece it together. It's an idea I've had the idea for a while now—granted, they started out with names. And in a different time line.<p>

And in a sort of a crack fic that would take way too much explaining here.

But yeah they're canon characters.

I mean, they're not together IN canon, but they exist. In a game. At the same time.

Maybe if someone guesses I'll write the crackfic. I don't think it will be too difficult to get.


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